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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27091636">Good as dead.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtledove542/pseuds/CripplingJoy'>CripplingJoy (turtledove542)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And to everyone who comments ily, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Bonding, Crack Treated Seriously, Did I say angst?, Dimension Travel, Dream Smp, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Shout out to twitter user kaia, Slow Build, Slow Burn, So much Lore, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit Friendship, Worldbuilding, because I mean angst., but there's no burn, l'manburg, no beta we die like george in manhunt, sfw, so it's just slow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 03:14:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27091636</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtledove542/pseuds/CripplingJoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Nine, ten paces. Fire!”</p><p>Dream feels like he’s drowning as his breathing quickens, his heart speeding in fear. His head feels like it's splitting apart as he clutches it, eyes closing in pain as he tries to remember what had gotten him here. Minecraft, the duel, Wilbur’s voice, shooting Tommy–</p><p>Shooting Tommy. In Minecraft. The game that he's now in. </p><p>He scrambles to his feet and his eyes are immediately drawn to a shock of dirty blond hair, floating face-down in a pool of red.</p><p>Real-life Tommy and Dream in the SMP, what will they do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream &amp; Toby Smith | Tubbo, Clay | Dream &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>338</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1461</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. tfw all ur friends are fake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896927">The Real World</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinammonzoa/pseuds/Cinammonzoa">Cinammonzoa</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Fly464/pseuds/Fire_Fly464">Fire_Fly464</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>dream is the imposter, vote em out</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“One, two, three, four,”</p><p>Dream is practically vibrating in his chair as Wilbur's voice echoes through the discord. The taps of his w key are the only sound in his otherwise silent room as he stares at the screen. The rest of L’manberg is lined up on a small hill, Dream’s team standing beside them in shining netherite. Hundreds of thousands of viewers all around the world watch with bated breath.</p><p>“Five, six, seven, eight–”</p><p><em> This is fun</em>, he thinks, giddy. Everything that led up to this moment, the betrayal, the talks – hell, even the grinding was <em> unbelievably </em> fun. He can't say that he's had ever done this before. Creating a plotline with virtual strangers across the sea, waging a geo-political war in a game made out of blocks – he had never expected for anything like this to happen, never even tried, thinking that the most enjoyment he’d ever get out of Minecraft was speedrunning. The beat of his heart and the grin on his face says differently.</p><p>“Nine, ten paces. Fire!”</p><p>Tommy’s first shot goes wide and Dream barely has to move to evade it. He fires back and Tommy's character dives into the water, the arrow splashing uselessly into the lake. Dream feels like laughing – he'd would have to surface eventually, and when he does he'll be unable to dodge, trapped in the water that had helped him escape. Tommy pops out, right on schedule, and Dream's arrow misses but it doesn’t matter – both of them know that Tommy doesn’t have time to reload. Dream nocks his last arrow, the light from the screen illuminating his grin. This is it. The moment that he's been waiting for. A hamilton quote (fresh from his memory after he'd finally watched it the day before) pops into his head as his bow fires.</p><p>
  <em>Do not throw away your shot. </em>
</p><p>The words are echoing in his head and Dream’s on the floor now, his eyes unable to focus. Somebody’s screaming (in pain or joy, he can't tell) and he curls up on himself. He feels his head for a headset but finds nothing but a smooth hood. His thoughts are wandering in a way that they probably aren’t supposed to, Dream realizes through the fog of his mind, and his gloved (since when did he have gloves?) hand thumps to the ground. He’s staring up at a perfectly blue sky and he’s incredulously taking in the wind, the fresh smell of grass, the distant yells. It hurts to focus on anything more. Dream's arm brushes against thick green fabric, though he could've sworn he was wearing a gray tee just moments prior. His head lolls to the side as he notes that the wood he’s lying on isn’t even the same texture as the stuff in his office  – it’s weathered and tan, unlike his dark, polished hardwood.</p><p>His gaze focuses a little farther and he notices the grassy knoll rolling down to a lake, stopped by a massive black and yellow wall. The pieces to this puzzle are scattered in his reach but Dream’s scrambled brains can't quite put them together. Half of him is screaming that <em> you’re in a video game, that's L'manberg that's enemy territory, you're surrounded by enemies get up and move– </em>while the more sane side of him yells <em>That’s impossible, I’m hallucinating, is this minecraft, what the fuck?</em></p><p>Dream feels like he’s drowning as his breathing quickens, his heart that had raced in excitement now speeding in fear. His head is splitting apart as he clutches it, eyes closing in pain as he tries to remember what had gotten him here. Minecraft, the duel, Wilbur’s voice, <em> shooting Tommy– </em></p><p>His mind finally surfaces as his muffled confusion makes way for pure panic. Whether he’s in a video game or a coma, the fact that his last memory is of killing Tommy is enough to get him to ignore the pounding of his head and stumble to his feet. </p><p>It isn’t hard to spot a shock of dirty blond hair, floating in a pool of red.</p><p>Dream rushes down to the bank of the lake, any pain that he’s in immediately forgotten as adrenaline courses through him. He hyper-focuses on the teen, ignoring any thoughts and stimuli that aren't related to getting to Tommy <em>as soon as possible</em>. He wades into the water and heaves him onto the wooden walkway above with a strength that he didn't have, last time he checked, but he's too preoccupied with hauling himself up after to really think about it. A niggling voice is asking him <em>why are you doing this when Tommy's allies can do it for him, why are you saving an enemy's life?</em> but he firmly kicks it out of his consciousness and ignores it. </p><p>The arrow had lodged itself into Tommy’s shoulder but Dream forcefully ignores it in favor of checking for signs of life, hovering his hand over his mouth instead and sighing when he feels a wet puff of air. Dream checks his pulse too, inexperienced fingers feeling at Tommy’s wrist and then his neck when he can't find anything, almost fainting in relief when he feels a fluttering pulse. He needs to do more than just check for life but he’s frozen, hunching over his dying friend as red stains his gloves, seeping into the fabric. Should he take the arrow out, stem the bleeding, hell, find a potion? Do people respawn here, or do they just die? <em> Have I just killed someone? </em></p><p>
  <em> “You!</em>
  <em>”  </em>
</p><p>Dream is shoved aside and a heavy weight settles on his back, pinning him to the ground. His head is yanked up, a sword (a sword!) pressed against the cloth on his neck. </p><p><em> “What did you do to him?” </em>a voice hisses, and Dream realizes that it's Fundy's with a start. Clawed, furry hands (paws?) scrabble on the mask that he hadn’t noticed he was wearing, fur getting dangerously close to his eyes. He doesn’t have time to contemplate the existence of furries though – all of his attention is directed at Tommy, who’s form is now hidden behind the various L’manbergians attending to him. </p><p>“Is he okay?” Dream demands, but Fundy just snarls inhumanly. The sound feels like it's vibrating his eyes and the furry presses him down into the wooden bridge, seeming to revel in his discomfort. The mask is digging into his face but he still can’t bring himself to look away from where he knows Tommy is. Dream needs to see him, make sure he’s not a murderer, make sure that Tommy’s <em>still breathing</em>.</p><p><em> “ </em> What <em> did you–” </em> Fundy tries to ask again, but his reply is cut off with a splash and a yowl and all that matters is that the weight is off Dream’s back. He doesn't bother looking at his savior as he scrambles to his feet, pushing through blue uniforms while he shoves his hands in the various pockets of his frankly ridiculous outfit, desperate for something that can help<em>. </em> His hand goes elbow deep in a pocket that should only fit his fist (is this his inventory?) and his fingers catch on a smooth object that sloshes as he pulls it out. It’s a pale pink and Dream can’t tell if it’s regen or health but it doesn’t matter – the only thing he can really focus on is the fact that Tommy’s lying there and there’s so much blood, staining his uniform and the cloth that a blond boy (Is that <em>Tubbo?)</em> is using to try and stem the bleeding. Tommy's skin is ashen and unusually pale, even for a British boy who doesn’t go outside. </p><p>Something about charging into a group of L'mangergians feels off, and there's a voice inside of him that's saying that <em>they're your enemies, you're unarmed, you're not wearing armor they're going to kill you why are you saving the enemy– </em>and Dream allows himself to hesitate for a moment before shoving himself into the circle they've formed. <em>If you try to save him you're dead, they'll kill you! </em>a thing inside him shouts, desperate and paranoid, but that doesn't discourage him because if it comes down to him or Tommy he'd choose his friend every single time. </p><p>“What the fuck?” Wilbur asks as he's shouldered aside, but it’s not really Wilbur, is it? His face is gaunt, his form thin, and there's a crossbow strapped to his thigh. It's not the same Wilbur that jokingly asked out a stranger for clout, who went to a pizza hut for a meme. This Wilbur has seen war and blood, and his eyes are suspicious and mirthless – he's the determined leader of an underdog army, everything that <em>real </em>Wilbur was trying to convey in a game personified. It hits him all at once – everything that he saw as a game is real here, wherever here is. Tommy being shot, the duel, Eret's betrayal, <em>no mercy! </em></p><p>Everyone here has been through Hell and back and it's obvious now that he's scanning for it. The way Tubbo (and it's unmistakenly Tubbo, despite his bright indigo eyes and blonde hair sticking out of his hat – <em>like his Minecraft skin,</em> Dream belatedly realizes) is treating Tommy's wound like he's done it a thousand times before, the way Fundy (who looks an awful lot like a fox) stands guarded like he could spring at any moment, the way Wilbur's looking at him like he's a ticking time bomb. It's all real. Their fear is real, and he can't even blame them – he remembers what he did, in the name of fun in a harmless game. Remembers what <em>they </em>did. </p><p>A theory is beginning to form that he doesn't really like.</p><p>Dream shakes himself from his thoughts; if he starts down that path now, he doesn’t know if he could stop. He shoves the potion into Wilbur’s hands, ignoring his flinch, and starts digging around his pockets for more. He finds an empty bottle, half of a strength potion, some pork chops (does food heal health here?), and bingo – another health type potion, this one a few shades darker. He gives it all to Wilbur, expecting him to start doing something but he just stands there, staring at Dream through narrowed eyes like he’s grown a second head.</p><p>It doesn’t take a thousand IQ to figure out why Wilbur’s hesitating – Dream’s just gone from a blood-thirsty psychopath to trying to save the enemy’s life. But you’d think that even an enemy would <em>accept his goddamn help </em>if somebody close to them was dying. And maybe there are respawns, maybe it would be better to let Tommy die and come back, but Dream doesn't think he can handle the idea of killing his friend, even temporarily.</p><p>“Please,” he says, and it comes out weak and raspy and desperate, but Wilbur’s eyes widen like he’s snapped out of whatever suspicious trance he’s been put in. “Please help him. Don’t let him die.” Wilbur stares and Dream briefly entertains a fantasy of snatching back the potions and treating Tommy himself, but then Wilbur nods and finally crouches down before he can really consider it. He tears a piece of cloth from his shirt and soaks it in each of the health potions before handing them off to Tubbo to stem the bleeding. Wilbur cradles Tommy’s head in his lap and tips a mixture of the potions down his throat, and the results are instant – Tommy turns from verge-of-death to haven’t-gone-outside-in-years, which is much more accurate. Dream can even see his eyes start to flutter open. Dream breathes a sigh of relief and steps back, comfortable in leaving Tommy in Wilbur and Tubbo's care. </p><p>He wants to stay but there’s a tapping on his shoulder though, and he turns around to find himself face to face with Punz. His chains are layered over shimmery <em>(enchanted) </em>netherite armor, and the combination makes Dream squint behind his mask. </p><p>“George and Sapnap want you,” Punz mutters, and Dream takes a breath and nods, in a daze. He makes his way over to his friends who look unnatural standing there, wearing fantastic armor over clothes that they wouldn't be caught dead in. He desperately wants to think that this nightmare is just a dream, but he knows that dreams aren’t like this; nothing is this detailed except for real life. He knows he can’t let himself think when he lays eyes on Sapnap and George, but he can't stop himself.</p><p>Sapnap’s wrong. His hair isn't brown anymore, it's floppy and black, like his Minecraft skin, and held back by a stupid headband. He's standing wrong too – all straight and tall, and he looks truly angry in a way that Sapnap never really is. He’s closed off, his eyes guarded, and Dream feels like he’s about to talk to a stranger than a friend. George is the same. Though George hasn't even seen his face, Dream <em>knows</em> him, knows that he would never look at him like that; with all the judgment and none of the warmth that underlines their every interaction. The massive goggles that George is unironically wearing mask his eyes, preventing Dream from really getting a read on him, but his stance and grimace give him more than he could ever need.</p><p>These aren’t his friends. Dream can feel a wave of anger surging in place of fear, his make-shift theory becoming more and more realistic. The L'mangergians are damaged from pain and fighting and these are the people that did it. These are bastardized versions of the people that he knows and loves, overdramatic and dishonest, scarred by war and death. They’re nothing more than characters wearing the faces of his friends. They’re nothing. They're fakes.</p><p>He’s grateful for his stupid, suffocating mask for covering his emotions as he reigns in his feelings and stamps down his anger. He can cry and scream and mope about this, but all that matters right now is for him to blend in so he can excuse himself, run away, and have a proper mental breakdown later. He fixes a grin on his face despite nobody being able to see it – if they can be unbelievably fake, so can he. Dream digs around in his inventory and effortlessly pulls out a netherite axe, handling it with nothing but muscle memory like it’s an extension of his limb, his hand fitting perfectly in the grip. He channels his inner psycho, strolls up to his not-friends, and digs the massive axe into the wooden walkway, casually leaning on it. His smile turns into a sneer. He hates how easy this is. He hates how his “friends” seem to relax like he’s back to his old self. </p><p>Sapnap’s the first to break the silence. “Dude,” he says, an eyebrow raised, and Dream hates all over again. “What the fuck was that?”</p><p>“Yeah, what <em> was </em> that?” George chimes in, and Dream can feel himself start to shake. </p><p>“...I didn’t want the child to die,” he drawls, and he’s proud and disgusted at how haughty he sounds. Sapnap scoffs.</p><p>“<em>I didn’t want the child to die~” </em> he mocks without a trace of humor, and it’s so <em>not Sapnap </em>that it makes him shudder. “Oh, please. That’s not what you said when we slaughtered them all in the trap room – pretty sure you wanted him to die then, cuz you killed him. Right, George? Eret?”</p><p>“It <em> was </em>pretty funny when the <em>L'man-children</em> died,” George says curtly, childishly, with a quirk of his lips that makes Dream want to hurl. “Took ‘em a week to even get back up, much less fight again.”</p><p>So respawning is possible, but it doesn’t sound like something that you’d want to go through. And yet psycho-Dream and his psycho-posse had run through every member of L’manburg and had laughed while they were at it. Go figure.</p><p>“Eret?”</p><p>Dream had honestly forgotten about him. Sapnap and George turn to a spot behind them and he follows their gaze, eyes widening when he sees Eret. His expression is as blank as Dream’s mask, all his features perfectly relaxed. Whereas Sapnap and George are exaggerated and cruel, Eret is nothing. He just stares at them through eyes covered in dark sunglasses, half-hidden in shadow, the personification of a blank slate.</p><p>Sapnap shrugs when the silence drags on a bit too long. “He agrees. Point is, that’s a bullshit excuse and you know it. So, why’d you save the child's life?”</p><p>Dream’s fighting a losing battle and he knows it. He doesn’t have an answer, and if he doesn’t give one soon then not-Sapnap’s gonna do something drastic but he can’t quite bring himself to care. The anger is coming back harder than ever, and his plan to get away before having a mental breakdown falling apart. Sapnap and George are psychopaths, Eret is apathetic, the L’manbergians look like they’ve been to hell and back and he <em>shot Tommy. </em>Everyone around him is just some character they'd drummed up for fun but it's not fun anymore; these are real, damaged people wearing the faces of his friends. Not to mention the fact that he may have just keeled over and disappeared in front of a hundred thousand combined viewers. He can’t take it. He can’t <em> fucking take it.  </em></p><p>"Because he's my <em>friend</em>," Dream says with a snarl and a tilt to his head, daring them to challenge him. This may be a different Tommy than the one he knows, but at least his character is based on his own personality. He's still his friend. </p><p>They look at each other. George raises an incredulous eyebrow while Sapnap scoffs and <em>laughs.</em> “You can't be <em>serious,</em>” he says in between manic chuckles, like Dream's statement is the stupidest thing he's ever heard. </p><p>God, this is real. This isn't some nightmare that he can wake up from and he knows it; dreams don't make his heart wrench or head hurt like this. “He's my<em> friend!</em>” he shouts again voice cracking pathetically, and Sapnap finally shuts up. There's a tear making its way down the side of Dream's face. </p><p>This is real and his friends have been reduced to psychopaths, laughing about killing people, nothing but poorly thought out personas with anything not relevant to the "plot" thrown away. Their real lives, their friendship, their basic human decency. Gone. Wilbur is nothing but a war-torn veteran, Sapnap is nothing but a blood-thirsty arsonist, George is nothing but a blind follower. </p><p>He catches a glimpse of the L’manbergians staring, and Sapnap and George are glancing at each other like <em>he’s </em>the one who’s gone off the deep end. They turn back towards him and they both look concerned. Dream's shaking, and he's waiting for some sort of confirmation, an <em>oh yeah, of course he's your friend, this is all some elaborate setup, it's all a prank bro! </em>Something, anything but the stunned, disbelieving looks on his friend's faces. </p><p>
  <em>He's my friend.</em>
</p><p>Silence. </p><p>He bolts.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hope I got my point across! Criticism is always welcome. Remember – if anybody is uncomfortable having fanfiction being written about them, I will rework/ straight up delete this whole fic, and you should respect their choices as well by not reading/writing anything that goes against their wishes. PSA over, Happy trails!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. run forrest run</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>dream gets honked up, big t pulls through</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's yelling and footsteps behind him. Dream's running faster and harder than he's ever been able to before and he uses his newfound stamina and agility to his full advantage, climbing over structures and bounding up hills. There are tears streaming from his eyes and he can barely see three feet in front of him but he still has an edge, despite all that – it's the fact that he's absolutely fucking terrified. He can hear Sapnap cussing behind him and George is gone, presumably looping around to try and cut him off. He just can't be near them right now, can't be near the same people wearing his best friend's faces who slaughtered a room of people and exploded a nation for kicks. <em>I did that too</em>, a voice whispers into his mind, <em>I led them, I instigated this, </em>but he cuts it off before it can go anywhere. Later. He can think about that later.</p><p>Sapnap's footsteps had disappeared sometime in the last ten minutes, and Dream finally spares a glance behind him. There's nobody there, and he finally allows himself to slow (not stop, he has to keep moving) down enough to catch his breath and glance at his surroundings. It's almost dark now, the horizon a fiery orange as the sun sets. The first stars are peaking through and Dream shudders. He's already on the verge of a panic attack – he doesn't want to add monsters to his list of worries. His eyes dart around and he recognizes the area he's in, despite the near darkness and the fact that the landscape isn't in block form anymore. He scuffs his boots and ash scatters around him, confirming his suspicions.</p><p>Tubbo's house. Specifically, the one that he had torched. What walls are left are crumbled and weak, and the floor is covered in a thick bed of soot. He kicks what he thinks is a rock but is revealed to be a chest, and he makes a mental note to come back here and loot them when monsters aren't about to devour him. The items are tempting, but his limbs are trembling, and desperately needs to lie down. Shelter is his number one priority, and he turns around to go look for some when something catches his eye.</p><p>A white corner pokes out of the ash in the corner of the house, and he ignores the voice that's telling him to <em>run away and find some god damn shelter already!</em> in favor of uncovering the iron shape. He brushes off the soot and grins, wide and relieved, at the object. He spots a slab of wood right above and scrubs at it with his hands. Dream huffs a weak laugh at the words despite the situation. </p><p>
  <em>Tommy's Poo Machine. Poo here, free of charge!</em>
</p><p>He pries the trapdoor open and climbs down as a pair of eyes watch on. </p><p>The sewers are surprisingly nice. Nobody actually uses them for sewage, which he couldn't be happier about – Tommy had built them mainly for transportation, and the only other person who actively uses them is Tubbo. Somebody will find him eventually, sure, but he could probably crash here for a few nights before he'll have to run again.</p><p>And just like that, the full enormity of the situation is staring him down again. He's trapped in a world in the middle of a war that <em>he started, </em>his "allies" nothing but psychopathic shadows of their real selves, is "enemies" traumatized versions of his friends, scared of him for things he did <em>in a game</em>. He has nowhere to turn. Everyone knows that there's something wrong with him, that he's not the "real" Dream. Neither side will accept him in a world where he needs all the help he can get.</p><p>Dream is alone.</p><p>His breathing is too fast again, he realizes too late, his heart rate picking up. He's slumping against the freezing stone wall and there's nothing around but the sound of rushing water and his heart beating out of his chest. There's nobody around, not that he'd feel better if there was, because all of his friends are <em>fake, none of this is real, they're all fucking insane they'd kill me in a heartbeat. </em></p><p>He's wearing too many layers, and he's overheating despite the cold stone surrounding him. He rips himself out of his sweater, the hood tugging on his neck. He pulls his gloves off and gags when his fingernails scratch at the dried blood, <em>Tommy's blood,</em> and he throws them into the channel of water and watches them get carried off. He tries to claw at his face but only scratches the mask – it's easy to breathe in, odd considering that it feels like porcelain, but everything it represents is suffocating him. He tears at it but it's not coming off, the bands are bound too tightly around his head and he almost rips off his hair when tries to pull it off with brute force, too frantic to even think –</p><p>"Dream?"</p><p>He startles on the floor, rolling away from the voice. His own breathing is drowning out every sound and even though he's hyperventilating it feels like he's choking. His heart is thudding too loudly in his ears and he can't hear anything; all he sees is a shadow, growing closer and closer. It crouches in front of him and this is it, it's Sapnap or Wilbur or George come to kill him, to finish him off. <em>You need to get up, you need to fight! </em>Something says, and Dream would listen to it but he's shaking so much he can hardly move.</p><p>"Dream, it's Tubbo. Do you know where you are?"</p><p>Tubbo. Right. He can see strands of blond hair hovering in front of him, indigo eyes staring up at him. He's not supposed to be blonde, but that's alright. Tubbo wasn't a leader or a psychopath when he played on the SMP, he just acted like himself, so he should be safe, right? But Dream had burnt his house down – that could result in some bad blood, but it was the one Tubbo hadn't been living in, and he doesn't remember him getting upset. That counts for something, right? Tubbo's decked out in diamond armor, all shimmering with some sort of enchantment, and a voice whispers that <em>he can kill you before you can even take out your sword, he could end you right now.</em> </p><p>But he's tired of panicking, tired of everything. <em>But he hasn't, </em>he whispers back to the voice, and he listens with great satisfaction as it shuts the fuck up.</p><p>"Do you know where you are?" Tubbo repeats, and Dream can finally breathe enough to answer his question. </p><p>"Yeah," he rasps. "The sewers."</p><p>Tubbo nods. "Do you need anything? Breathing exercise, physical contact..." he says, trailing off, and any doubts about Tubbo's character are immediately wiped away. His breathing's finally under control again and he can feel his heart rate slow for the first time since he landed here. He's safe here.</p><p>"I'm fine," Dream says, sitting up. He's okay. It's okay.</p><p>"Alright," Tubbo says, and a very awkward silence starts to lapse. Tubbo's staring at him and reasonably so; his hair, which seems like is always covered, is fully on display, as well as his horrifically pale neck and hands. Did he never take off his gloves or hoodie? Ugh, he's getting off-track – he can physically feel his mind running in circles. He forcibly cuts off his thoughts before he can spiral again and sighs, weary.</p><p>"I'll tell you whatever you want, okay? Just let me rest first. And don't tell anyone I'm here."</p><p>Tubbo nods a little too quickly. He can't blame the kid for being curious – the mental parkour he's been doing has been throwing everyone off. From Psycho to friendly to anxious, who wouldn't wait a couple of hours for some answers from the enemy?</p><p>"Right then," Dream says, and he's tempted to pass out on the stone right then and there, which is exactly what he does. He settles on the floor, using his sweater as a pillow as he curls against the wall. He spares a glance at Tubbo; all he catches is his bemused expression and Dream grins, amused, despite everything that just happened. He can feel himself starting to drift so he gives in, shuts his eyes, and resolves to deal with everything later as he falls into a fitful sleep.</p><p>Tubbo blinks at the sleeping form of his worst enemy, mouth agape.</p><p>W<em>hat the fuck just happened?</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tommy's coming soon, I swear! What do you guys think of this chapter – too rushed, not rushed enough? All comments are appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Stranger Danger, I guess.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>imagine being trapped in a hamilton roleplay, couldn't be me</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
  <em>What the fuck, what the hell, what the shit. </em>
</p><p>Tommy's shoulder is hurting and his mouth is dry and everything’s all woozy, but that's not important right now, because his eyes are open and he's not anywhere that he recognizes. He's in a cramped room on a small bed with chests lining the walls (who the hell uses chests?) and he's really fucking confused. Has he been kidnapped? Drugged? He shifts before looking down incredulously. He's wearing a white collared shirt with some black slacks which is <em>really</em> weird because he's pretty sure he doesn't own any black slacks, and he doesn't remember changing. Doesn't remember much of anything.</p><p>But he can't think about that right now – his number one priority is getting the hell out of dodge and calling the police. He stills and listens for a second – nothing but bird chirps and wind, no people around – and stumbles to his feet, taking a moment to make the room stop spinning. He tiptoes up to the door and turns the handle. It's unlocked, and Tommy feels like pumping his fist. His kidnappers are idiots! He opens the door and it creaks in a way that makes him cringe, but there's nobody around so that shouldn't be a –</p><p>"Took you long enough, Tommy!"</p><p>He gives a (manly) shriek at the oddly familiar voice. He whips his head around only to find Wilbur, sitting on a counter in an (<em>L'manburg?</em>) old-timey uniform, and Tommy realizes that maybe befriending a 23-year-old online wasn't the best idea. But he still trusts Wilbur, despite the overwhelming evidence that's pointing to him being a child-snatcher, so he's willing to hear him explain. Wilbur hops off the counter and something shifts behind him. Tommy peers around the brunette, and if he didn't know any better he'd say that the item that's shifted is a brewing stand from Minecraft. There are quite a few of these "brewing stands" scattered around the counters on either side of the building, and-</p><p><em>It's the camarvan, </em>something whispers, and he glances around. Brewing stands, counters, the bed he was just in; it’s familiar – it <em>is</em> an exact copy of the Camarvan. Even the materials look the same – it’s not even a van, just a replica with the same stone, same wood, same countertops; just like the Dream SMP. It’s really cool and all, but Tommy thinks that this experience would be better if he could actually remember anything. The last thing he recalls is dueling Dream in Minecraft, but none of that equates to him standing in a real-life camarvan. </p><p>Wilbur just stands there, watching him, with an understanding yet off-putting smile, like he’s watching a newborn deer take its first steps into the maw of a wolf.</p><p>Tommy resists the urge to shudder. </p><p>“You alright, Tommy?” he asks, and his tone is wrong. It’s soft but serious, none of the joking that he’s used to. Sure, Wilbur’s talked to him like this, after he does or says something wrong in front of thousands of viewers, but there's always a warning, always a disclaimer that it's gonna be a serious talk. He just woke up and now he’s in the middle of a van, Wilbur’s wearing a costume, and Tommy can’t remember even ending his last stream.</p><p>“What the hell’s happening?” he mutters, and he can feel himself starting to panic. He can’t focus on that now though – his number one priority is now figuring out what the fuck just happened. Tommy clears his throat. “How'd I get here?” he asks.</p><p>“You remember dueling Dream?” Wilbur says. Okay, that’s a good start, that’s something that he can actually recall. But how the fuck does that relate to being kidnapped by Wilbur in a cosplay? He nods anyway. “Tommy, you were very brave, don’t get me wrong, but that was the most <em>reckless</em> thing you have ever done. You could’ve died, Tommy, and you’ve already respawned twice this month, do you know how damaging a third would be? God, Tommy, I love you like a son but <em>this</em>,” Wilbur says, starting to rant and what the fuck. Are they supposed to be in character? Are they at an event? Why’s the world spinning? Whatever this is, Tommy’s starting to think that maybe he's the odd one out. Wilbur continues ranting like his life depends on it, totally unaware of Tommy’s confusion. </p><p>“This is too far. You went too far, Tommy, and you disobeyed a direct order from your leader,” Wilbur says, sighing. He sounds resigned and looks exhausted as he leans against the stone countertop, and he drags a hand down his face. There are dark circles under his eyes and some healing scratches that don’t look recent, which is weird because he’s pretty sure Wilbur would’ve told him if he’d hurt himself, however minor. How many days are missing from his memory? Why is Wilbur talking like Tommy's supposed to know what to say next? </p><p>“You went too far, Tommy, and yet I still can’t help but admire your bravery. You challenged the green bastard to his own game and you might’ve lost, but the fact that you risked it all for us, our cause…”</p><p><em>He's talking about the duel, </em>something mutters while Wilbur trails off dramatically, but it feels too real. Even at his most serious, Wilbur always has an undercurrent of humor or amusement, especially on the Dream SMP, but here he's practically giving an award-winning performance – one that Tommy know's he's not capable of giving. Wilbur is good at acting but not this good, with real anger seeping into his words and a thousand-yard-stare in between his pauses, like he's aged twenty years since Tommy's last seen him, and wild gestures accompanying his frenzied pacing. His nausea isn't helping anything, and his frustration is growing with every sentence that Wilbur says, every movement he makes, so when the brunette opens his mouth to speak again Tommy snaps.</p><p>"W-Where <em>the fuck am I?" </em>he says, and he something in him almost feels bad for how Wilbur blinks at him, taken aback, like Tommy's the one in the wrong. His throat is raspy like he hasn't spoken in days (not that he'd know), and his question comes out snarling and harsh. Wilbur's face turns sympathetic, and it pulls on his features all wrong like it's some guy wearing Wilbur's face instead of <em>Wilbur</em>. It only serves to unnerve Tommy more.</p><p>"The Camarvan, L'manburg," Wilbur says without a trace of sarcasm, and Tommy wants to scream that <em>this isn't a joke, this bit needs to end, this isn't funny! </em>But as he turns his head he catches a glimpse of massive black walls outside the window, highlighted with yellow, and his heart drops out of his chest. He bolts towards the exit and pushes open the door, ignoring Wilburs yell. His eyes go wide. The entire area is an exact replica of L'manberg, with a grassy field surrounding the van and giant taigas near the walls. There's even craters and holes in the wall from when Dream blew up the place with TNT, but Tommy can't quite appreciate the work that must've gone into this because he <em>still </em>doesn't have a real explanation, despite the realization slowly creeping into his head. <em>Kidnapping is possible,</em> he tells himself, <em>being teleported into a hamilton role-play Minecraft server is not.</em></p><p>It rings hollow in his ears like he knows it's a lie.</p><p>"Oh hey, Tommy!" another voice calls out, and he immediately identifies it as Fundy's. Great – another internet man. He <em>really</em> regrets not listening to his parents when they told him about stranger danger now.</p><p>He turns around, hoping to get some sort of answer from Fundy, only to be greeted by a furry. He screams and backs up but trips on a stray piece of rubble. He falls back, hard, and he tries to catch himself but one of his shoulders buckles; the grass softens his fall but not enough and he's left on the ground, defenseless and in pain. The furry only advances, and he can't read its expression through the face full of fur.</p><p>"What the fuck?!" he screeches, scrambling back; the furry whines, high and animalistic, and Tommy hasn't been around many furries but he's pretty sure that none of them are this convincing. The fox-man's ears go from standing up to lying flat on his head, a tail swishing behind him like it's got a life of its own. Not to mention its finger paw things, each one flexing as it reaches towards him. Its face looks like a fox's but is emoting like a human, black eyes gleaming, and he's pretty sure fursuits can't blink or move their whiskers or open their mouths to reveal rows and rows of canine teeth.</p><p>"Is there something on my face?' the furry half-jokes in Fundy's voice, and that's when he realizes that the furry <em>is </em>Fundy – it's practically an exact copy of his Minecraft skin, with his pastel L'mangurg suit and hat. Tommy's dizziness is coming back with a force and he grips to the grass underneath him, chest heaving, mind thoroughly fucked. There's no way, there's <em>no way. </em></p><p><em>Fuck this shit, </em>he thinks to himself hysterically, and Fundy or Wilbur is saying something but it sounds like gibberish. Tommy's vision is going black, the ringing in his ears growing into a roar. <em>I'm out.</em></p><p>He faints.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The reception on these chapters is giving me life! I can't reply to you all, but know that I appreciate everyone who's left a comment, a kudos, hell – anybody that's even clicked on this is good in my book! Y'all are too nice :D. Stay safe and happy trails!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. yo wtf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>big T contemplates</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tubbo watches, for a while. He's never seen Dream like this, peaceful and vulnerable, his back to the enemy as he slumbers away. His brownish hair flops as he shifts, a sliver of pale skin peeking through the side of his mask. He almost seems human, in the quiet darkness of the sewers.</p><p>Almost.</p><p>Dream can pretend all he wants, but Tubbo <em> knows </em>that this is an act, some sort of new tactic to lower his guard, and the worst part is that he's falling for it. Dream's a bloodthirsty, power-hungry, sub-human psychopath who will do anything and kill anybody to get his way; it's been demonstrated and reinforced by every interaction they have. But the memory of –</p><p>
  <em> Dream practically pushing over Wilbur in his haste to get to Tommy. Fundy’s in the water and Tubbo's trying to stop his friend's bleeding and he can't do anything but watch as the masked man gets closer. Tubbo feels paralyzed; he needs to treat Tommy but it'll all be for nothing if Dream kills them both. He watches as Dream shoves something glassy and pink into his leader’s hands, and when he gets a closer look his eyes widen. It’s a regen potion, and he watches as Dream goes back into his inventory and pulls out some food, a strength potion, and an instant health potion, dumping it all into Wilbur’s arms. Tubbo can hear the gears turning in this leader's head, analyzing the contents with a critical eye. This doesn’t make sense, none of this makes sense; how somebody could go from cold and cruel to giving up precious supplies to save an enemy’s life – there has to be a catch.  </em>
</p><p><em> “Please,” somebody whispers, and with a start Tubbo realizes it’s </em> Dream. <em>His tone of voice is setting him on edge – he’s never heard him sound so alive, so open and sad, and he has to be acting but something in Tubbo’s gut is telling him he isn’t. “Please help him.” </em></p><p>– keeps replaying in his head like a broken record. How desperate and heartbroken Dream sounded, a contrast to usual indifference. How he seemed to snap back to his usual self when he talked to his goons before screaming about <em>being Tommy's friend,</em> of all things, despite Dream having no opportunity to befriend him. How he’d bolted when confronted by his friends, how he'd spotted Dream in the house he had burned, how he’d caught him in the middle of a panic attack. If this is part of some plan then it’s the most convoluted one Tubbo’s ever heard of. </p><p>So what if this isn’t a plan? What if Dream’s not faking any of this? Tubbo may have been focused on Tommy but he still remembers seeing Dream hitting the ground after shooting with no explanation. Did he have a stroke, swap bodies, have the sudden realization that shooting children <em> isn’t </em> a good idea?</p><p>All of them are highly unlikely, but Tubbo still can’t quite believe that this is some sort of ploy either. Dream had never shown an ounce of emotion, so why base an entire plan off of it now? Why make a plan with so many twists and turns, places where things can go wrong and a thousand variables to trip something up? He’s been battling Dream for months and he knows how he fights, how he thinks, how he plans. Dream's too prideful to show weakness, and yet he just faked a panic attack right in front of him – but that’s not true either. Tubbo may not be able to see his face but he saw the way that Dream was breathing, was tearing off his layers and scratching at his skin, how he practically cowered when Tubbo approached him. That was real. </p><p>It's confusing, horribly so. Tubbo stares at the deceptively peaceful green figure like he'll reveal all his secrets. <em>I can probably make him, </em>something in Tubbo thinks, the part that wants this war to be done by any means necessary. It crawls out of some hole in his sanity and makes him summon a gleaming netherite axe, the same one Dream had left behind when he bolted. He's not sure what enchantments are on here but he remembers his friends being slaughtered in seconds, the sudden silence as the life fades from their eyes, so it's probably effective. <em>If Dream's acting then a few swings with the axe will make him break character,</em> he thinks, empty, <em>and if he isn't then I can always force it out of him. </em></p><p>Tubbo abandons the thought the second it's over, sheathing the axe back into his inventory as quickly as possible. He feels sick. Most of the Dream SMP (Sapnap is debatable) would never stoop to this level, and he refuses to be worse than them. He refuses to hurt somebody when there's a better option, even if they deserve it. The vision of Dream chuckling when he saw Tommy's sign pops into his mind and his guilt triples. He'd considered torturing someone, and even though the idea had dragged itself back into the darkest recesses of his mind the moment it peeked out, the fact that his fear, anger, and resentment had solidified into <em>that</em> is enough to freak him out. He wonders when it formed, how long it's been there. He wonders if it'll ever go away. </p><p>His head hurts. </p><p>Tubbo stands up, resolving not to think any further about that. Look on the bright side, he tells himself: Dream's promised to answer all his questions, and though he's many things (<em>crazy, cruel, terrifying, manipulative</em>), he's not a liar. He doesn't even stir when Tubbo stands up to stretch, and he waves his hand over the masked man's face just to make sure that he's asleep. Not even a flinch; the man's somehow fast asleep. Tubbo deems it safe to leave Dream alone for a few hours – he needs to report to Wilbur, check on Tommy, loot his old house for supplies, try not to get ambushed by the remaining Dream Team, and sneak back here when all is said and done. No biggie. Tubbo takes a deep breath and glances back at the man one last time. He's face down on his lime green hoodie and his breaths are deep and loud; he's practically snoring. </p><p>Tubbo's not sure if it's the dim lighting or sound of the water or the cool stone walls, but something about the scene makes Dream seem so small and lonely and broken and <em>human.</em></p><p>His heart twinges as he walks away. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Kinda short but it felt weird when I tried to expand it so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Feel free to leave a comment if there's anything weird or if you want to make suggestions!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. why are u running</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>new body who dis</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream wakes up alone, his head pounding. </p><p>That's not the weird part though (he does it all the time) – the weird part, and the one that sends a spike of adrenaline through his veins, is the fact that he <em> doesn't recognize where he is. </em>He lies as still as possible, keeping his eyes closed, and evens out his breathing, pretending to still be asleep so he can analyze the situation without anybody noticing. The first thing he hears is voices, and he immediately focuses on them, but his hearing is foggy and the voices are small and tinny. They aren't getting closer after a minute and Dream's never been one for patience, so he chooses to take the risk and pushes himself to his feet, stance low and even, ready to intercept any attack coming his way. </p><p>He's greeted with a screen.</p><p>Two, to be exact, bright and blinding, and he squints into them before turning his attention to more important matters, like the sound of his sworn enemies coming from the object in front of him. <em> A headset, </em> something new in him whispers, and everything around him slowly clicks into place as he pans around. <em> A monitor, a mic, a keyboard, a mouse. Discord and Twitch,  </em></p><p>
  <em> Minecraft.  </em>
</p><p>A stab of pain shoots through his skull and Dream grits his teeth and ignores it, turning away from the monitors. He grabs the headset before he can change his mind and slips it on like he's done it a thousand times before. He needs answers, <em> now, </em>and he’s not going to get them by sitting around. A voice blares through his ears the moment he puts them on and he holds black a flinch.</p><p>"Dreeeam? Dreamy-poo? You there?"</p><p>Sapnap. His voice is drawling and playful, but something about it rubs Dream the wrong way. It lacks the edge that usually adorns every word that Sapnap says, and he sounds... sane? Mundane, even. Whatever it is, it's wrong.</p><p>"I don't think he's there, guys," George mutters, and he sounds the same if not a little quieter. </p><p>"Yeah, Tommy's not answering – and neither of them are muted," Tubbo says beside him, and Dream snaps his head over and almost yanks the wire of his headphones off trying to summon his axe and shield before he realizes that Tubbo isn’t there, it’s just a Discord call. But then why is Tubbo in a call with his enemies?</p><p>“Wait, guys...” and that’s <em> Wilbur, what the hell is happening. </em> “Tommy <em>ended</em> his stream.”</p><p>What the fuck is streaming? What does any of this mean? </p><p><em>"What?</em>" Dream hears Fundy mutter, mirroring his thoughts. </p><p>“He just left the Discord, too." Punz is here as well, acting like the call isn't full of sworn enemies.</p><p>“Should we all end stream?”  That's Eret; the fact that he’s speaking at all is unusual, and he’s so focused on the fact that Eret is talking for the first time in weeks that he almost misses his sentence. There it is again, that familiar unfamiliar word – ending <em>stream. </em>What does it mean?</p><p><em>It means that there's thousands of people watching you go selectively mute, </em>says the same thing that told him what headsets and monitors are. Dream shudders, but he takes the thing's (instinct's? Intuition's?) word for it. It hasn't been wrong yet, but what Dream's struggling to understand is <em>why</em>. </p><p>All of Dream SMP and L’manburg are in the same call talking like they haven’t tried to kill each other like they aren’t in the middle of a war, and all are worrying over Tommy like half of them haven't tried to kill him. None of this makes sense, and that’s not even mentioning the fact that he <em> still </em>doesn’t know where he is, why his friends sound so different, why he recognizes everything in the room despite never having heard of all this stuff. </p><p>“<em> What the fuck, </em> ” Dream whispers to himself, and he clamps a hand over his mouth immediately. He expects his hand to hit cool porcelain, but to his surprise it makes contact with his skin. His arms are bare too, and a quick glance reveals that he’s only in sweatpants and a T-shirt; his skin, his hair, <em>his face</em> is on display for anybody walking near a window to see.</p><p>“Dream? You there?”</p><p>He practically throws the headset off of him <em> (the mic picked that up, I’m not muted–) </em> and tears out of the room. The layout of the (<em>his</em>) house is familiar and Dream rushes to where he knows some masks are, and they won't cover everything but they're better than nothing. He speeds past a bathroom and catches a glimpse in a reflective surface and <em>no no no, it can't be</em>. Dream backtracks quickly and almost hits the sink in his haste to look into the mirror.</p><p>He’s tanner, his hair lighter, and there’s a few extra freckles dotting his skin and face. He’s lean too, but in a natural way – most of his bulky muscle is gone along with his scars, giving him a softer, cleaner look.  But he’s not paying attention to any of that, too preoccupied with the realization that for the first time in nearly a year <em>his eyes are green. </em></p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p>Tommy finds himself on a floor, sprawled on cool wood as he stares up at a ceiling. There's pain shooting up his skull and he resists a groan as he sits up, only narrowly avoiding hitting his head on a desk that's not supposed to be there, his hand brushing against a chair and an unplugged headset <em>(whatever that is)</em>. He inhales, immediately alert when he realizes that he doesn't recognize his surroundings<em>. </em>He eyes the odd room for any sign of the Dream SMPers but comes up with nothing; he goes to stand up but something yells at him to <em>get down, they can see you!</em></p><p>His instincts are usually right so he hits the floor, scanning the small room for anyone, anything, but he turns up empty again. There's a buzzing on the desk above him that's drawing his attention and he glances up at it only to be met with two screens, so bright and unnatural that they make his eyes throb. <em>They're monitors, </em>something quietly realizes, and that something inside him perks up at the sight of them, directing his gaze to the top. There's a small object attached to the monitor. <em>The light on it means that it's recording, </em>he realizes, and his eyes snap back to the monitors. <em>Twitch, discord, chat, OBS–  </em>he sees on one, and he glances at the other. </p><p>
  <em>Minecraft. </em>
</p><p>His headache comes back with a passion he averts his eyes, focusing on the first screen instead. It has several tabs open but only one is drawing his gaze. Text is scrolling down almost faster than he can read on the right <em>(it's on sub-only mode, I hate sub-only mode, he thinks),</em> messages appearing and disappearing the moment they show up. He catches a recurring theme – all of them seem worried, and almost all of them mention <em>him.</em> The left side is taken up by a floating "<em>you died!" </em>stained red, mocking him. The unfamiliar (<em>familiar</em>) sight sends his heart racing even faster, panic shooting through him. He can't deal with this, the weight of thousands of strangers watching him stumble and flail. Tommy scrambles around the webcam to the back of the desk, staying out of sight despite his gut telling him to <em>get back into frame, say something!</em></p><p>He ignores his internal screaming and fumbles with the cords, giving up and just ripping them out when that he can't figure them out. The monitors and webcam go dark and he can't help but be relieved for a few moments as the presence of thousands of people vanishes. But then the anxiety returns, ten times stronger, and his inner turmoil seethes. </p><p>Tommy's fucked up and he knows it. He just collapsed, live in front of tens of thousands of people and his apparent friends and <em>nobody</em> saw him get back up before he ended stream. His phone won't stop buzzing and he can already feel the shitstorm that's gonna be Twitter, but that's the problem – he's not <em>supposed</em> to know what Twitter or streaming or phones are, because he's never seen nor heard of them – he just knows. He also knows that Wilbur is about to send him some very serious texts, and something tells him that he's not quite in the right headspace to deal with that because his breathings weird and his heart's beating too fast and oh yeah,<em> he just got shot. </em></p><p>But when he pulls at his neckline there's nothing there but smooth, unblemished skin which doesn't make sense, because he distinctively remembers an arrow <em>ripping through him, falling back into cool water, too paralyzed to swim, blood staining his vision, his last image a smooth, white, smiling mask –</em></p><p>His phone's buzzing again. Tommy wants to find Wilbur or Fundy or Tubbo or Nihachu and hug them, talk to them, <em>anything, </em>but he knows in his gut that there's a million strangers between them and the thought of trying to pilot the odd, vibrating device is too much. He crawls into the bed that's apparently his and curls up with nothing but foreign thoughts and a mounting sense of dread.</p><p>Tommy's never felt so alone. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>mystery and angst are the most important meals of the day. Thanks for everything, happy trails!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. plz dont kill me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>dre was the imposter, one imposter remaining</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream wakes up alone, his headache from yesterday gone.</p><p>He stretches and stills when he contacts cold stone instead of his sheets. His eyes flick open and for a second he doesn't recognize where he is and panics, but then the memories come flowing back and the panic dies down to a general unease. Minecraft, duel, Tommy, running, Tubbo. The images from the (day? hour? he doesn't know how long he's been asleep) flip through his head, and he lies back down with a groan. Ugh. He knows that this whole situation is actually happening to him; the fact that he hasn't woken up in his bed or a hospital fully cements his new reality.</p><p>But he's not alone – there's the sound of someone hitting something hard hitting against stone resounding down the tunnel, and it's close. Dream sits up, carefully, grabs his hoodie from under him, and rummages around the pocket for a weapon. He'd managed to summon some potions and food when he was treating Tommy, so that should work again, right? But his fingers are greeted with nothing but the soft cloth and a few crumbs, and Dream just stares as his hands refuse to break the laws of physics. </p><p>His head snaps up when he hears the pounding stop and the sound of approaching footsteps, light and cautious, replacing it. Dream tenses and considers running but he forces himself to hold out, and when Tubbo's familiar figure rounds the corner, carrying an iron pickaxe over his shoulder, he breathes a sigh of relief. </p><p>"Hey!" he greets, giving a nervous wave, and Tubbo visibly does a double-take, almost knocking himself out with his pick in the process. Right. The ruthless psychopath who tried <em>(and succeeded!) </em>to kill him and his family is now greeting him like an old friend. Not suspicious at all. Dream sighs, and the words from the day before - <em>I'll tell you whatever you want, okay? -</em> echo through his head. He's not sure how he's going to explain to Tubbo how he went from bloodthirsty to cowering in a tunnel, or why he saved Tommy when respawning is apparently a thing, or that Tubbo's entire existence is based on a musical. He could always lie, sure, but he's had no prep time, and something in him that usually wouldn't care is screaming about backing out of a deal. He's not a liar. </p><p>"Hi," Tubbo returns, nervously. He swings the pickaxe in a downwards motion and a thought screeching that<em> he's the enemy, he's going to attack you- </em>rings through Dream's head, unprompted. But Tubbo's pick doesn't hit him or impact the floor; he instead watches as it <em>disappears</em> from Tubbo's grip instead. "So I was thinking-"</p><p>"How'd you do that?" Dream blurts, interrupting the teen. Tubbo blinks at him, and Dream mentally kicks himself in the shins – he's supposed to be cool and serious and intimidating, but right now he's fangirling over a magic trick. But he's pretty sure that the energy required to keep his persona up would kill him, so. Besides, the idea of being able to disappear things (putting them in his inventory?) is <em>really fucking cool. </em>Dream certainly doesn't know how to do that.</p><p>"I... what?" Tubbo asks, puzzled. He flicks his wrist up and the pickaxe is there, and when he brings it down again it's gone like <em>magic. "</em>My <em>inventory?</em><em>"</em>  he asks, incredulous, and oh shit it's not magic, it's an integral part of these people's existence that he's also supposed to know, whoops. Dream can't help but feel relieved though; he may have dug himself into a corner by saying something that can't be explained without telling the whole truth, but at least he has no excuse to back out of his unintentional deal - something he really doesn't want to do, for some reason. Tubbo could help him with so many things he's clueless about too, like killing monsters and crafting and enchanting, things that he would have had to figure out himself. And he doesn't have to be lonely! The more he runs it through his head, the less it feels like he just fucked up.</p><p>"It's... part of the explanation," Dream says weakly, and his cheeks burn when Tubbo just looks at him, dubious. But the teen seems to believe it after a moment, and he turns around and starts walking away. Tubbo glances over his shoulder after a moment and jerks his chin in a universal sign for <em>follow me </em>so Dream collects his sweatshirt and scampers after him. They turn the corner and Tubbo summons his iron pick again (so cool...), trotting up to a section of the wall that's about eye level and slamming it in. The stone splinters unnaturally under the sharp point, and with a few more swings the small section of the wall crumbles away, golden light spilling through. He starts picking at the remainder of the wall and before Dream knows it there's a doorway, leading into a hollowed stone room. Tubbo casually flicks his other hand and the rubble vanishes <em>(back into his inventory?)</em>, and Dream still can't get over how cool that is. He grins, despite the situation – by the end of this, he'll be able to do <em>magic</em>. </p><p>He also may be dead, because the room Tubbo's herding him in is well-lit and spacious but there's only one exit – an exit that Tubbo is currently blocking back up with smooth stone. When he's done it looks like there was never any doorway; people rarely come in here as is, and with that extra layer of security it's guaranteed he'll never be found. That's when Dream realizes that <em>maybe</em> following somebody who has a <em>very</em> good reason to kill him while he's weak is a very bad idea - not that he has a better option. But Tubbo doesn't pounce on him and start stabbing, he doesn't even take out a weapon. Dream watches as he inhales and exhales, lifting his head, unnaturally bright blue eyes digging straight into his.</p><p>"What happened to you?"</p><hr/><p>Tommy finds himself on a bed, sprawled on rough sheets as he stares at the ceiling. He's had roughly ten hours of sleep and a good half hour of assorted existential crises, and he's pretty much set now. He's okay with this situation. He's accepted that he's in L'manberg, a fictional nation based on <em>Hamilton. </em>He's also in the middle of a war, one that they're about to lose. He's <em>also</em> been shot, and the only reason he's still standing is because of the copious amounts of magical potions that he's been force-fed<em>. </em>This is fine. </p><p>"Are you okay?" Fundy asks, popping his furry head into the small backroom of the van, and maybe he's not so cool after all. Tommy resists the urge to throw something at him.</p><p>"Yes, Fundy," he mutters, "I'm fine." The furry has been poking his head in here often, and Tommy's gotten used to his new form oddly quickly. Maybe because it's because the fox won't leave him alone, practically forcing Tommy to get used to it, under "their leader's" orders to make sure he doesn't run off or whatever. He hates how even this fucked-up version of his Wilbur knows him so well. He couldn't have been more relieved when the man had left, but not-Tubbo's off running errands and Eret is a traitorous bastard, which means that he's been left alone with a furry. A furry that knows exactly what's going on, in a world where he can use all the information he can get. Hmm...</p><p>"Okay," Fundy says awkwardly, hovering in the cramped doorway. "So I'll just-"</p><p>"Wait!" Tommy said, and Fundy hesitates. Fuck, what should he say? "Uh... What happened?" he tries when the silence drags on too long. It's a good start – perfectly ambiguous, and if he's lucky it'll segway into something useful. The only thing he can really remember before waking up is <em>a scream, </em><em>an aching pain, a solid platform, something being tipped down his throat - </em>but that's not really enough to go off of.</p><p>"You don't remember?" Fundy asks.</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Ah, well... I don't know how much Wilbur wants me to tell you..." Fundy begins, scratching the back of his ears with a claw. Dammit. Now Tommy has to tread the conversational minefield; try and get the info he needs without revealing that he has no idea what the fuck he's talking about. One wrong move and they'll figure out it's not him.</p><p><em>Keep it simple, </em>he tells himself. "Just tell me what happened after I got shot. It's... a blur," Tommy says, and he sounds lost, even to his own ears, but Fundy seems to buy it. There's something wrong with fox-boy though (other than the fact that he's covered in fur) – he's shifting, his ears flattened, his eyes darting around the room instead of looking at him. <em>He's nervous, he's not telling you something, he's planning, </em>says something in him that can apparently read fox expressions. </p><p>"Right. Er, after you got hit. Um. You're not gonna like this, but. Uh," Fundy begins. Definitely not telling him something. "You know the potions that we used to save you?" The fox says instead, interrupting his own sentence. Tommy nods. That's one of the <em>only</em> things he knows. "Well, they weren't ours. They were Dream's – hear me out! We didn't have any more, and the closest ones were miles away, and I know we shouldn't have taken his but we didn't have a choice! It was that or letting you respawn, but you've already done that twice this month, and..." Fundy's eyes dart around as he looks for somebody who isn't there. He lowers his voice to a whisper, leaning down like he's telling a secret, and Tommy has to strain to hear it. "<em>We didn't want you to end up like Eret." </em> A shiver runs down Tommy's spine as Fundy straightens up and glosses over it with a casual tone. "So we had to use Dream's supplies. He kinda saved your life."</p><p>Tommy's head feels like it's swimming. So there's something seriously wrong with Eret and it has to do with respawning, great; more mystery to pile on to the fuckshow that's already happening. But Dream saving his life is what really gives him pause. He can't quite figure out why he'd did that, at least with the limited information Tommy has. They're sworn enemies in this world, so if something bad happens after he hits three respawns then why didn't Dream let him suffer the consequences? Tommy swapped during or right after the duel for seemingly no reason; did Dream have something to do with that? Did Dream do this to him? <em>Does Dream know how to get him back?</em></p><p>"Why did he let me live?" he says after a moment, fishing for some sort of hope. Fundy fidgets, then shrugs.</p><p>"We don't actually know. We're thinking that he did something to the potions he gave us, or maybe wants you alive for a deal, or something. But we tested some leftover potion on some animals and they're fine, and if he wanted you alive for a deal then why accept the duel in the first place? It doesn't make sense, y'know? And that's not even the weirdest part - the weirdest part is that <em>none</em> of the Dream SMP <em>knows what he's doing either," </em>Fundy says, his tone growing more determined.</p><p>Tommy stares at him. Fundy's tail swishes. "I know, right?" he exclaims, beginning to pace. "So Dream gives us the potions but then Punz calls him over. They talk for a bit while I'm watching them, and by now Dream's looking pretty uncomfortable. Already a weird sign – I mean, why would Dream look so out of place among his allies? They talk for a bit and then Dream <em>runs away, imagine that, Dream running away</em>, and he leaves his weapon behind. Dream without his axe, can you imagine that? But here's the kicker, <em>Tommy," </em>Fundy says, stopping and leaning in, and Tommy belatedly realizes that <em>maybe </em>he's been found out. "Before he ran off," he breathes, and Tommy's heart is racing. This is it, this is where it ends. "He said that you were <em>friends</em>."</p><p>That... wasn't what Tommy was expecting. He blinks. "I... <em>what?" </em>the teen questions, genuinely confused. Any worries about being discovered running through his head screech to a halt. Fundy's dark, beady eyes scan his face for any trace of deceit and he leans back a few long seconds later, seemingly satisfied with his reaction. "You don't know either," The fox says, relieved. "Good."</p><p>It's quiet now but Tommy's thoughts are bursting back to life, and his half-hearted theory has done a 180º and is morphing to a full-blown realization. Fundy's still present in the doorway though, watching him, and Tommy needs to him to <em>leave. </em></p><p>"Hey Fundy, is it cool if I... can think about this for a bit?" Tommy says, breathless, and he can barely register the words coming out of his own mouth. Fundy nods, giving him what is probably an understanding smile (but looks more like a spazzing animatronic) before he leaves, and Tommy can hear the distant creak of the Camarvan door closing. He lets out a breath he didn't know he had been holding and places his head in his hands.</p><p>Tommy's earliest memory here is the aftermath of the duel, which is about the same time that Dream started acting weird too according to Fundy. Dream saved him with no explanation, ran away from his own friends, <em>and </em>left his OP weapon behind when he's supposed to be an elite, unfeeling warrior? Doesn't fit his M.O. Not to mention the fact that they <em>participated in the same duel</em> – if something had happened during it and Dream wasn't the culprit, then he has to be a victim. If anybody would've come here with Tommy, it would've been him. </p><p>Tommy's half tempted to run out and find Dream right now and see him, talk to him, anything, but Fundy and the rest of the Dream SMP stands in between them and the thought of even confronting them is too much. He curls up in his bed and covers himself in sheets, with nothing but possibilities and plans unfurling through his mind and a mounting sense of hope to keep him company.</p><p>He might not be alone. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Also I had to thanos snap Niki cuz I forgot that she hadn't joined yet, and I wasn't sure what to do with her anyway D: rip. And you know ya gurl's gotta be historically accurate.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. wblur is sad D:</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>2 to the 1 to the 1 to the 3, please get tommyinnit on my screen where did he go please</p>
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    <p>Tommy won't pick up his <em>goddamn </em>phone.</p><p>Everyone ended their stream twenty minutes ago, against hundreds of thousands of viewer's wishes, might he add, and they're still sitting silent or muted in the Discord call. Tommy's mods have deleted the VOD, only furthering the confusion, and their fans have all probably descended on Twitter to express their concern. Wilbur's half tempted to check it; maybe Tommy's tweeted something? But his notifications are on and no tweets have come through except for the few from his fellow streamers trying to calm the whirlwind of worry down. Those aren't worth looking at anyway.</p><p>Wilbur's never felt so powerless in his life. Sitting here hundreds of miles away as if his friend isn't panicking or maybe even <em>dying</em>. Tommy collapsed, didn't get back in frame, and then ended one of his biggest streams with no explanation. What else is he supposed to think?</p><p>The dial tone has turned to voicemail and Wilbur hangs up and calls again. He's been trying the moment he told everyone that Tommy had ended stream, ignoring all other stimuli in favor of finding out what the<em> fuck</em> happened to him. He doesn't have Tommy's parents' numbers, and he left all the messages he needed to ten minutes ago, so the only thing left to do is to call until <em>somebody</em> notices and picks up his phone. Wilbur finds himself pulling up a clip of the last minute of Tommy's stream as it rings, almost against his will. This isn't good for his mental health, he can't just keep watching the same video and expect something to change, but he still starts it despite his better judgement and scans for any clues.</p><p>He ignores what's happening on the screen and stares at the facecam, looking for some sign of discomfort, some sort of warning about what was to come. Nothing, like the last five times he watched it. Absolutely fucking <em>nothing. </em></p><p>"Hey, guys?" Sapnap unmutes himself and asks. Wilbur's half tempted to scream at him but he directs his energy to redialing Tommy instead. He stays quiet, and Sapnap continues despite the silence ringing through the discord call. </p><p>"Dream's not picking up. I even called his mom and she says that he's not answering either," he says, and now Wilbur's <em>really</em> tempted to smack him. <em>Dream's</em> not the one who collapsed on stream, who's being tweeted at by thousands of people, who could be <em>dead, </em>for all Wilbur knows. He unmutes and fantasizes about screaming into Sapnap's ears but gives up on the idea just as fast. It's only reasonable that Sapnap would be more worried about his best friend than some random British teen, especially since Dream was acting erratically before vanishing as well. His anger fizzles out into resignation, and he mutes again as he redials. </p><p>"Do you think they might be connected?" </p><p>That's the <em>stupidest </em>thing Wilbur's ever heard, but he's been raised with manners so he just unmutes again and replies with a "Maybe."</p><p>His mind can't help but wander towards the possibilities though. There are a thousand reasons for Dream vanishing - getting stressed and leaving, his setup breaking, someone coming in his room - that <em>don't </em>involve whatever Sapnap's thinking. But his paranoia is niggling at the back of his mind, the lack of answers forcing him to consider every possibility, no matter how outlandish. Dream went silent minutes before they knew anything was going on, and Wilbur furrows his brows as a shadow of a memory wriggles into his consciousness. The knowledge is useless but a niggling voice tells him that he <em>needs</em> to know, and it's not like he has any better ideas. He pulls up the clip again and watches it one last time despite his mental state screaming in pain, this time focusing only on audio, desperate for any sort of answer.</p><p>Tommy's character is shooting in the water and Dream dodges his arrow with a tiny yelp before he fires back, the first shot missing Tommy and the next nailing him square in the torso. That's when Tommy goes glassy-eyed and collapses, but Wilbur forcibly ignores the facecam in favor of listening to Dream, or rather, the <em>lack</em> of him. He's completely silent despite his victory, not screaming or shouting like his friends. All Wilbur hears is the clatter ofheadphones being set down (dropped?) a few seconds later and a soft, echoey thump, like something heavy (<em>a body,</em> his thoughts whisper) hitting the floor away from the mic. Both sounds are unmistakable, even through the chatter of their oblivious friends, but this doesn't make sense - why would something happen to Dream <em>and </em>Tommy at the same time?</p><p>Was this whole thing some sick coincidence? Please. A one in a billion chance happening to somebody live in front of thousands of people is enough, it happening to two people at the same time is nigh impossible. But what other explanation is there? Dream just <em>happened </em>to walk away after beating Tommy, without a word? As if - the man's pride wouldn't let him. If his setup broke then he would've texted someone, if somebody came in then he would've shooed them out, if he left then he would've been back by now. An there's another thing too - Wilbur may have been focused on calling Tommy, but he still remembers a whisper, Dream's discord icon lighting up before a definite clatter of something being thrown or dropped. Did he collapse and try to get up? What was that sound? There's no good explanation for any of this. Nothing's making sense.</p><p>Did some stalkers get to them, take them out at the same time? His speculations are getting wilder and wilder as the reasonable ones get shot down. It can't be; although he can't see Dream's point of view, he's watched Tommy's clip enough times to know that he was alone in his room. <em>And might still be, </em>he thinks, his train of thought veering - Tommy's local friends are asleep and his parents are instructed to not bother him, which means nobody's going to check up on him <em>until it's too late- </em></p><p>Oh, voicemail. </p><p>Wilbur hangs up and redials again. </p><hr/><p>Wilbur can't be any more relieved when he sees an orange and pastel shape, slinking through the charred underbrush and sliding up to him with a gust of soot. They're in a section of burnt forest not far from L'manberg, in an area that's practically inhospitable. Nobody, SMPers or L'manbergians, will find them here - it's the perfect meeting place. Fundy pads up to him, bare paws sending soft puffs of ash into the air. They nod at each other briefly and the fox begins to speak.</p><p>"I'm pretty sure he's not working with Dream," He mummers and Wilbur sighs, somewhat relieved of the weight that had been crushing him for hours. <em>Pretty sure</em> isn't <em>certainly</em> but it's enough. He's infinitely glad that he made Fundy observe Tommy instead of doing it himself - his keen senses, while not perfect, could sniff out a lie better than Wilbur ever could. </p><p><em>And you're a fucking coward, can't even confront your own right-hand man, </em>his thoughts whisper, and Wilbur steadfastly ignores them. He can't let emotions rule him, not in a world with stakes like this.</p><p>"He's still off, though. His memory, for example, seems foggy after the duel. That's not <em>impossible</em> of course, especially considering the adrenaline and the side effects of healing potions in general, but one can't help but wonder..." Fundy trails off, hinting at something that Wilbur has no patience to deal with. He raises an eyebrow at the fox, a silent sign to <em>get on with it. </em></p><p>Fundy sighs. "My dramatics are wasted on you," he says sadly, trying to create humor in a situation where there is none, and Wilbur is <em>this</em> close to slapping him when he launches into his report. "Tommy's confused and twitchy which, don't get me wrong, is totally expected. He had a near-death experience and almost turned out like... you know..." He says, trailing off, before continuing on with his report like he hadn't just made Wilbur relive a <em>very</em> painful memory. "So it's totally understandable that he's so shaken. But he's... I don't know, I can't pin it down. But it's almost like he looks and talks at me weird, like he's talking to a <em>stranger,</em> but worse. I dunno, I can't really describe it - I might just be paranoid, but something about his attitude just... doesn't sit right, y'know?" </p><p>Wilbur <em>does </em>know. He knows Tommy's confidence, his arrogance, his swagger, the way he talks and the way he walks. But that wasn't the Tommy he knew, staring at Wilbur like he's an enemy, scrambling out of the Camarvan with an urgency that can't be explained by mere confusion, <em>fainting</em> at the sight of Fundy. Something's happened to his right-hand man and Wilbur is completely powerless, cursed to watch from the sidelines as a friend devolves before his eyes <em>again. </em></p><p>He can't let that happen. He won't make that mistake again. "So what do you think happened?" Wilbur asks. An idea is forming in his head but his stomach churns even thinking about it. Surely Dream SMP wouldn't try the same tactic twice? He needs a second opinion.</p><p>Fundy shrugs. "There's a lot of possibilities. This could all be some side effects from the potions and the near 'death' experience combining and freaking him out. Or Dream could've agreed to the duel because he knew that we would have to accept his potions, and he slipped something in them. But then what's with the whole 'Tommy is my friend' thing? And why didn't Dream tell his allies? Why did he bolt? None of this adds up you see - it could really be anything."</p><p>Ugh. He hates this, this <em>not knowing. </em>They're stuck in a rut until they can get more information but time is of the essence; they can't risk spending weeks carefully observing just for Tommy to get worse, but they have to know how to proceed. It's a catch 22 with him and his men caught in the middle of it. This whole situation makes Wilbur's head hurt and heart ache.</p><p>Fundy purses his lips, noticing his anxiousness, and changes the subject. "So have you found anyone?"</p><p>The transition is ungraceful and obvious, but Wilbur still can't help but smile at the fact that his ally, his <em>son, </em>is being so considerate. "Not really; Dream SMP looks like a ghost town right now. I saw signs of some people heading towards the woods and the Nether. They're getting desperate, but I don't think they'll give up any time soon." </p><p>"That's good, right? That means more time for us to prepare," Fundy says hopefully, and Wilbur sighs.</p><p>"Prepare for what, Fundy? Tommy's duel was our last chance at independence - the only reason we aren't part of Dream SMP yet is because everyone's looking for the green bastard. Nobody has time to sign a peace treaty. We're living on borrowed time," he states, resignation seeping into his tone despite all his best efforts to sound disconnected. Fundy steps forward and Wilbur's heart breaks a little more at his naive determination.</p><p>"But... but we can still <em>do </em>something, right? They'll be looking for Dream for a couple of days, that gives us enough time to get more supplies or lay of trap, or-"</p><p>"<em>Fundy," </em>Wilbur interrupts, final. The fox's mouth shuts with an audible <em>click, </em>canines clinking together. "There's no way we can get gear to match theirs in days, and laying a <em>trap</em>? We don't know when they're coming back, where they'll be, and they'll just come back in a week and wipe us out anyway, permanently.  Almost all of us are on our last lives, Fundy, and our sanity matters more than a signed piece of paper. We're <em>surrendering</em> and we will survive, together."</p><p>There's tears pricking in the corners of Fundy's dark eyes. "So all this," he says, gesturing to the charred forest around them, his clothes rustling in the dead silence, "this war and death and betrayal, you're telling me it was all for <em>nothing?"</em>.</p><p><em>Independence... or death. If we get no revolution, then we </em>want<em> nothing. </em>The line drifts through his head, a memory of a time when there was hope, when he could say those words and believe that they would never come to fruition. But now they've been at war for months and the threat of one too many respawns hangs heavy over their heads. "No," Wilbur says, only half-lying. "L'manberg's spirit will always live on," he promises, but it sounds hollow and fake, rings empty in the silent forest. Fundy looks away and Wilbur can feel his heart shattering for his son.</p><p>"Alright," Fundy says, and the man doesn't think he's ever seen someone sound so defeated. "I'll just..." he mutters, backing up. He lets him go with a nod and Fundy slips back into the gray forest with a whirl of soot and a flicker of orange.</p><p>Wilbur's left standing alone in a once beautiful forest torched by a pointless war, everything he's ever worked for crumbling like the wood around him. He looks up at the sky, obscured by charred branches, and wonders where it went so wrong. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy trails! (Future Joy writing this, that one in a billion really aged well huh)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. magic bread</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>did somebody say lore??? And angst??? Foreshadowing, anyone???</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream fidgets as Tubbo paces the length of the stone room, face turned away from him. He's sweating under his mask despite it being relatively cool, anxiety only rising the longer Tubbo's silent. He's told him almost everything - how he started a server, invited his friends, streamed it all live for thousands of viewers - all while carefully skirting around the whole "I technically created this version of you" thing. He's already fucked with Tubbo's perception of reality enough, he doesn't want to add an existential crisis to the mix.</p><p>Tubbo stops when he's still turned away from him and Dream's nervousness spikes. He can feel his body unconsciously lowering, ready to fight or bolt (not that there was anywhere to run). <em>Tubbo can kill you right now, </em>his paranoia hisses, and he supposes that it would make sense if he did; Dream just admitted to being defenseless. </p><p>But Tubbo doesn't turn around with a sword in hand or a potion of harming - he doesn't even look angry. Dream has to do a double-take because Tubbo looks <em>excited,</em> turning around with a bounce to his steps, a grin spreading on his face.</p><p>"This," he breathes, "is <em>so cool."</em></p><p>What.</p><p>"You're from an entirely different <em>reality! </em>An alternate universe! You guys have like, computers and streaming and... and <em>people! </em>You said thousands of people watch your streams? We don't even have twenty! Well, I guess there's villagers but they don't really count... but that's not the point! And our inventories and stuff mimic a <em>game</em> that you play? I mean, you don't even <em>understand</em> how cool this is," Tubbo rambles, grinning from ear to ear. That's one way to look at it, Dream supposes; he had just thought of this as being trapped in a nightmare of his own creation. Traveling to an alternate reality with game mechanics sounds a little cooler. </p><p>"God, this is so sick - I have so many questions! I also need to eat," Tubbo says, whirling around and heading to the crafting table in the corner. Dream snorts at his antics, laughing for the first time since he came here. The teen's mood is infectious and he can't help but feel a little uplifted at his enthusiasm. The looming threat of anyone finding him or Tubbo turning him in recedes and Dream can physically feel himself relaxing; he's going to have to deal with everything that's happening outside of these stone walls eventually, but for now he can bask in the knowledge that he's safe. Everything's gonna be okay.</p><p>But then Tubbo puts three bushels of wheat on the crafting table and his world turns upside down. "What are you..." Dream asks, and he can feel his jaw dropping as Tubbo turns around with a loaf of bread, dusting a few stalks off its dry surface. He just turned wheat into bread. He just turned one ingredient into <em>several.</em></p><p><em>"What the fuck?" </em>he screeches, pointing at the impossible loaf of bread. He knows that he's in some version of Minecraft, but Dream still can't wrap his head around the fact that <em>Tubbo just made bread.</em></p><p>"What?" Tubbo asks through a mouthful of impossibility. He glances around self-consciously, brushing dust off his uniform. </p><p>"The bread," Dream says dumbly, and Tubbo just stares at it confused. Like he hadn't just created it out of wheat and thin air. He flicks off a tiny piece of straw and takes another bite, shrugging at him like he breaks the laws of physics every day. He probably does, now that Dream thinks about it, with inventories and respawns and whatever. But still. <em>Bread. </em></p><p>"How about this," Dream says, watching the item like it'll make a move, "I ask you a question about your world, you ask a question about mine. I'll start. How the <em>fuck </em>did you turn wheat into bread?" </p><p>Tubbo blinks. "With the crafting table. Do you guys not have those?" he says casually, and Dream wants to throttle something. </p><p>Dream shakes his head. "In the game, not in real life. But<em> how</em> did you do it?"</p><p>"Oh. Runes," the teen says casually, ripping off another chunk of bread, and Dream chokes on air. Runes. What the fuck. Runes. Those aren't even in Minecraft! "Yeah, they just show up automatically when we make a crafting table. We figure they're created by the same ancient people that built the desert and jungle temples and whatnot. The books we use to enchant stuff with? That's their language - we'll find an ancient text lying around occasionally and sometimes they do stuff, though they're usually useless," he rambles, and okay. Wow.</p><p>That's... a lot. Sounds like something straight out of a Game Theory video, if Dream's being honest. He's having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that there's <em>lore - </em>he was pretty certain that he and his friends had created this world and everything in it, but now that there's runes and ancient languages and Dream's not so sure. Had this world been here before? Are his "friends" more than just personas? Who created who? </p><p>"My turn!" Tubbo says brightly, still chewing on his piece of magic bread like he hadn't just flipped Dream's perception of reality. "How many people are there in your world?" he asks, and the question is easy and mindless, gives him a break from all the thinking that he's done and is about to do. </p><p>"About seven-and-a-half billion, give or take," Dream says, and he interrupts Tubbo's <em>Woah!</em> before either of them can get distracted. "What's up with respawning?"</p><p>Tubbo's expression falls immediately and the light-hearted mood sinks. Dream almost feels bad for asking the question. Almost. "Well," he starts, and it's clear that he's stalling. Dream levels a glare at him (not that he can see it) and Tubbo sighs, blue eyes downcast. "Respawning is... difficult, to say the least. You can't really describe it, but it's hard to get up once you get knocked down, y'know? And your body is basically getting rebuilt out of thin air too, so you end up weakened mentally and physically. Not pleasant. But the worst part," Tubbo says, and he looks visibly uncomfortable, his gaze darting around the room, "<em>The worst part is that sometimes you don't come back." </em></p><p>Dream shivers at the implications. "How well you'll make it through kinda depends on your mental state, and how many respawns you've gone through recently," Tubbo continues, and he elaborates further when he sees, well, senses Dream's puzzled expression. "There's no set amount, but if you're in a good place then two in a short period is when you start getting some temporary side effects - skittishness, nightmares, the usual for a week or so. Three or four is when more permanent things happen - apathy, various mental disorders, and you'll even start seeing physical changes, like scars or... or pale eyes," Tubbo finishes nervously, and Dream nods. He feels bad for making the teen explain more than he has to, but his curiosity is burning a hole through his mouth and the words are slipping out before he can stop them.</p><p>"You said that mental state matters - what do you mean?" he blurts, and he watches as Tubbo seems to shrink in on himself. He regrets his words almost immediately - Tubbo's definitely respawned before, and if it's as hard as he says it is then Dream just keeps bringing up painful memories. Tubbo still answers though, and Dream's not sure whether to stop him or be grateful. He settles with neither.</p><p>"Well, respawning is like... when you're lying in bed and you know you're supposed to wake up. If you've got a positive mindset then it's easier to face the day, but if you have a negative one then you... you might just want to," he says, and Dream is shocked into silence as he just keeps going, talking like he'll suffocate if he doesn't get the words out.</p><p>"And even if you do drag yourself out of bed, you'll just go right back eventually so why not just oversleep one time? So after days of getting up at the crack of dawn, you oversleep, but then you wake up too late and then you... then you-" Tubbo chokes, and Dream takes way too long to realize that there are tears beading at the corner of Tubbo's eyes, threatening to spill over. </p><p>
  <em>Oh shit. </em>
</p><p>He rushes over and engulfs Tubbo in a hug, and his heart sinks when Tubbo only stiffens in his grasp. Pure guilt washes over him as the realization sets in - Tubbo's been forced to respawn before and <em>Dream's </em>the one who probably did it. Every instance that he's ever killed him is flashing through his mind like some sort of sick montage, Tubbo's Minecraft character lighting up red and falling with a crack, but it's just Minecraft anymore, is it? The blocky figure has been replaced with -</p><p>
  <em>- a flash of blonde as Tubbo tumbles off the precarious tower they had made, a scream echoing through the air as he falls to join his friend below. The sudden silence jarrs him into action and Dream peers over the edge, the glint of items strewn about on the grass being the only thing he can see. He scrambles back to safety and summons his prizes to his hand, staring at the purple and green of the discs that he had won, but the victory is as empty as the color of his eyes-</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- clumsy hands rummage through the ender chest and Dream knows it's too late. He embeds his axe into Tubbo's chest and watches as he stiffens around the blade, turning one last time to give him a jagged smile, corrupted with pain. Dream snarls as Tubbo disappears with a puff, leaving nothing but his bloodied axe and a few spare bits of trash, anything useful deposited in the ender chest and out of Dream's reach. Sapnap and George hiss insults and encouragements into his ears as his anger consumes him, giving him ideas and plans that would have left him sick before all of this. All he feels now though is a twisted sense of determination and burning anger, not that he knows anything else, anymore -</em>
</p><p>- <em>wide, round eyes </em><em>staring up at him as the boy's knees buckle, almost taking his axe with him. Dream rips the weapon out of his chest and he can see nothing but red, soaking Tubbo's uniform, dripping down the handle and staining his hands, and hears nothing but the thump of a body hitting the ground and soft, rattling breaths. Tubbo's body vanishes after an agonizing minute, dissolving in a puff of smoke that leaves Dream with nothing but crimson hands, an inventory of supplies, and the memory of blue eyes going blank. Tommy's taken care of a moment later and George whoops and starts rummaging through the bloodied pile of stuff while Sapnap just turns towards him, a dripping sword slung over his shoulder and mirroring his easy, bloodstained grin - </em></p><p>He breaks out of the <em>(visions? memories?)</em> as Tubbo relaxes in his grasp, wrapping his arms around <em>(a murderer, he's hugging his murderer) </em>his black undershirt. Dream hooks his head over his shoulder and tries not to notice the lingering bloodstains on the fingers wrapped around Tubbo's back, dried crimson flicks mocking him. </p><p>He had forgotten to wash them off. </p><p>Dream closes his eyes and tries to forget. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't worry, we'll see our SMP-in-real-life boys soon enough! Also, criticism is always welcome! Don't worry about it sounding rude or unwanted. Feel free to do anything if you see a typo or an inconstant plot point, or even if you don't like how something is written. I always appreciate a chance to improve my writing!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. a whole new worlddd</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Switched out sapnap's pov for Tommy's - some of you guys got a sneak peek, lol. Start reading from the line break if you've already read the first part :D</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream's in an alternate universe.</p><p>It's the only logical conclusion, as farfetched as it is. There's no way he's still in his world - he's in his body, sure, but it's one untouched by war and fighting, missing almost all of his scars on a form that has never seen combat. His eyes too; they wouldn't just turn green overnight without cause. </p><p>He knows the names and a vague idea of how to use the stuff around him as well, the knowledge creeping into his consciousness whenever he needs it, almost like it was already there in this body’s brain. He knew how a headset worked despite never having seen one, recognized a microphone and knew that it would pick up his noise, and even the structure <em>(his house)</em> he's in seems familiar. Conclusion: Dream has been transported into an alternate version of himself. He feels stupid for even thinking it, but it's the only viable possibility.</p><p><em>If you think about it, </em>Dream rationalizes, lying on a couch and staring at a spinning ceiling fan (another thing he shouldn’t know the name of), wondering how it works,<em> There are portals and dimensions, so why not take it a step further? </em> It's unlikely, but so is him ending up in this situation in the first place. Besides, it's not like he has any better ideas, and there's a surprising amount of evidence pointing to it. </p><p>His world could never even dream of the technology that's so prevalent here, for example. There's odd machinery everywhere he looks, and a glance outside reveals houses of foreign materials and roaring vehicles. Anybody who could even begin to make this sort of stuff is long gone, the only thing left of them being ruins and mysterious texts. Dream briefly wonders if he's time-traveled to the past, somehow, but the idea is abandoned with a scoff. It may explain the machines, but time traveling doesn't make your enemies your friends. </p><p>But then how did he get here? There are no signs of any runes in the house and he just knows that none of the technology here is capable of transporting him here. There has to be an explanation hiding somewhere. A memory - <em>"Yeah, Tommy's not answering." </em><em>"Tommy</em> ended<em> his stream"</em> - surfaces and Dream furrows his brows. There was something wrong with Tommy too, right when Dream woke up. Tommy, who had challenged him to the duel. Tommy, who could've easily <em>rigged a trap. </em></p><p>Dream could probably go back into the room with the monitors and headset, make sure that his theory is correct. But his eyes are burning at even the thought of looking at the bright screens and he really, <em>really </em>doesn't want to talk to his foes without a weapon, even if they're not physically present. The grip of his axe grounds him like nothing else, and Dream's going to need all the grounding he can get if he's going to confront alternate versions of his friends and enemies - something he needs to do eventually.</p><p>There are a couple of questions that he wants to ask.</p><p>He goes to summon his trusty netherite axe and Dream tilts his head when nothing appears. He tries again and exaggerates the motion but still nothing; not even a tug in his mental space. He closes his eyes and tries to access his items manually, growing more frustrated by the second, but is only met with an empty wall where his inventory should be. His crafting is unavailable too, blocked by the same thing that's preventing him from protecting himself. Everything he needs is in there and he's been locked out with no armor, shield, or weapons. His friends are soft and sympathetic, his enemies unpredictable. He's stranded in a world that will hate him, given the chance, with nothing to protect himself.</p><p>His frustration morphs into a fury and Dream channels it into his fist, whirling around and punching the nearest wall, his knuckles bruising on the unfamiliar material. He reels from the sudden pain and bends over as he covers his right hand. Right. This isn't his body, isn't it? It would make sense that it wouldn't have the same pain tolerance. That doesn't change the fact that his punch was weak and uncoordinated, only making a dent in whatever material the wall is. He punched <em>trees </em>down bare-knuckled and now he can't even wreck a wall? </p><p>He uncovers his hand and finds that both of them are wet and slick with blood. <em>Huh</em>, he thinks, analyzing his fist. It's not just his mental and physical strength reduced - this body itself is weak in a way that training will never fix. He stares at his knuckles as they continue to bleed with no signs of stopping. He's not hungry, which means his body has plenty of extra energy to heal himself, and yet his wounds haven't even stopped, much less scabbed over. Great. Another setback to add to the pile. He bares his teeth in distaste. </p><p>Dream's alone but more importantly, he's defenseless, he's <em>weak</em>. His eyes are green, his mind is clear for the first time in a <em>year, </em>and he wants it to stay like that. He can't risk dying here, which means he needs to arm and defend himself. Dream's suddenly aware of how vulnerable he is, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and right hand now injured. He instinctively goes to unsheathe his axe and hisses when he's reminded that he can't <em>do</em> that anymore with his inventory locked away. </p><p>Fine. If he can't summon a weapon then he'll find one. He tears up the house (all while carefully tiptoeing around the room with the microphone), digging through drawers and ransacking shelves, looking for something useful. </p><p>But the closest thing to a weapon that Dream can find is a dull steak knife (he slips that into his pocket), the closest thing to a shield a couch cushion. A cat is lying in a patch of sun that he vaguely recognizes as his, which could potentially serve some offensive and defensive capabilities, but the only thing it (<em>she, </em>a voice mutters) does is wind herself around his legs and purr. She's cute, but not very intimidating. He scratches her head and sighs, his flurry of activity momentarily stopped. </p><p>Nothing. Plan B would be to fortify himself in the house and never leave, but a quick look around the front and backyard reveals nothing but decorative grass and trees - no food, and no seeds in any of the cabinets either. That, and his non-existent inventory, cements the fact that he's going to need to go outside to resupply eventually. A glance through the closed curtains reveals an empty blackstone-like street and no people in sight. It's still bright out but the sun will set in an hour, so if all goes wrong then at least he'll have the cover of darkness to hide in. This new world is practically begging him to explore it, and Dream's never been one for patience. </p><p>There's plenty of hoodies and jeans around to cover himself fully, and although Dream doesn't have his usual porcelain mask there's plenty of face coverings lying around. He eyes a pair of sunglasses, associating them with somebody... unsavory, before begrudgingly slipping them on. He pulls his hood up and scrutinizes himself in the bathroom mirror. Dream's not a fan of how bits of his neck and face are visible no matter how much he pulls the fabric, but he still looks unrecognizable. Good enough. </p><p>Dream slips down the glasses and lets himself stare at his irises for a second, making sure they haven't switched up on him. His reflection stares back, murky green eyes silently judging him. He quirks a smile of relief at the sight and turns around, heading towards the entranceway, ready to face the outside world alone with nothing but his wits (and the knife he had found). <em>It wouldn't be the first time, </em>Dream thinks to himself, standing outside the front door. The cat meows an encouragement at his side and Dream breathes in, oddly excited to experience the new world. </p><p><em>The first thing I'll do is buy a bow,</em> Dream tells himself, setting off in a random direction of the alien land. He'll get some directions to the nearest weapon vendor, and if all goes wrong then at least he has a knife. He grins.</p><p>
  <em>The second will be finding TommyInnit. </em>
</p><hr/><p>Tommy's dead.</p><p>Well, probably not, but at this point anything goes. He's been thinking about this whole situation for far longer than necessary, lying in soft, unfamiliar sheets for hours as a device next to him buzzes. There's no way Tommy's still in his world - the technology and the architecture outside is nothing like he's ever seen. There's no way he's still in his body either - his scars are gone, his hair is darker and shorter from the glance he'd caught at it, and oh yeah, <em>he's not bleeding out</em>. It's not like he's respawned either, because his mind is clear and if he had then he would've done it in his bed back in L'mangerg. No. This is something different. </p><p>Maybe he's been reincarnated? But Tommy had managed a glance at his phone half an hour back and the messages were from Wilbur and Tubbo, people who were alive last time he checked. And the messages full of questions, none of them saying anything about suddenly appearing in another dimension, so it's safe to say that he's the only one here. <em>I'm alone, </em>he's reminded again for the nth time today. <em>Utterly alone. </em></p><p>Tommy can feel a sob hitching in his chest and he fights it back with a vengeance. There's people in the house that he's in, and although something in him insists that they're safe he really doesn't want to interact with people right now. Especially people who apparently know him well - they'll know that Tommy's different, that he isn't the Tommy they knew, and they'll probably kill him for it. Tommy furrows his brows. That actually might work - he's heard of people storing their stuff in an ender chest before killing themselves to return to their spawn points. Maybe if he dies he'll go back to his home bed?</p><p>But Tommy remembers the nightmares, a fading <em>"It was never meant to be"</em> as he fell, his friends slaughtered to the laughs of the opposing side. He remembers feeling betrayed and hopeless, knowing that they'd lose everything they had ever fought for, half tempted to sink into depths and never emerge. He remembers the shaky, clouded feeling of waking up a day later than anybody else, despite Fundy being on his second respawn too. Tommy remembers looking in a mirror and watching his pupils fading and his irises wavering, the whites of his eyes bleeding into teal. He remembers screaming at Dream, challenging him to a duel as his body trembled and his mind fogged with bloodlust, squinting to try and mask the growing madness in his eyes. He remembers Eret, a blank gaze and a blanker smile.</p><p>He shudders. Yeah, no thanks. Dying is definitely off the table for the foreseeable future, preferably forever. He can't exactly help out the war effort if he's brain-dead. But then that raises the question - how <em>is</em> he going to get back? </p><p>Tommy's breaths refuse to come out in anything in short gasps now, and he forcibly stops his thoughts in favor of calming the fuck down. <em>Deep breaths,</em> a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tubbo tells him, and Tommy listens to it despite the pain in his heart. <em>I might never be able to hear him again,</em> he realizes, and he shoves that realization down the moment it comes up. He has to be rational, he needs to get information before jumping to conclusions. </p><p><em>Right,</em> Tommy thinks as he stares up at the lights on his ceiling. He wonders how they work. <em>Plan: Get information. Somehow.</em>  </p><p>The phone buzzes for the first time in a while and Tommy jumps, startled. He stares at it as it lights up, displaying a notification. Information, something mutters, directing him to it, and after an internal debate his curiosity finally wins out. He grabs it like it'll explode, carefully maneuvering it into his hand. Tommy stares at his reflection in the dark glass before instinctively tapping on the screen, swiping up, and inputting a password with muscle memory that isn't his. He blinks at his finger as it hovers over the unlocked screen. Huh. </p><p>Well, no matter. Tommy squints at the bright screen and the multitude of colorful apps, ignoring the notifications that line the top of his screen. He carefully scrutinizes them all before tapping on one that looks somewhat promising, but he taps out immediately when sound blares out. He accidentally hits another app with too many complex words in the process. He fumbles and nearly drops the phone in his haste to exit out of that, and Tommy sighs in relief when it's safely back in its hands. Okay. This might be harder than he thought. </p><p>Unlocking his phone worked when he wasn't thinking about it, so maybe it'll work if he trusts his gut? It's a stretch, but everything he's done since he woke up here is, so. </p><p>"I need to find a place to get information," he mutters to himself, hand hovering over the device. <em>Go to Twitter, dipshit,</em> something mutters back, and Tommy shivers at the foreign voice that's undeniably his. He shudders, and tries not to think about what happened to the previous inhabitant of this body as he navigates to Twitter. </p><p>The darker scheme gives his eyes a much-needed break as he adjusts to the tiny words. <em>You're on the trending tab,</em> the thing whispers, and Tommy's eyes drift over to the words in bold. </p><p><strong>United Kingdom Trends</strong>, it reads, and the smaller text under it gives him pause. </p><p>
  <em>1 - Trending.</em>
</p><p>#WhereIsHe</p><p>
  <em>Fans speculate about Minecraft Twitch streamer TommyInnit after he collapsed while live streaming.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>18.2K tweets</em>
</p><p>There's so many things wrong with that sentence that Tommy doesn't know where to begin. He knows he's in some sort of convoluted alternate universe but this? <em>Really?</em> Thousands of people worrying about his wellbeing. Really. Tommy could go for a good scream or shout or cry right about now, but he's so, so tired, and the only thing he can manage is a sense of emptiness.</p><p>Tommy throws his phone across the room, plants his face in a pillow, and wishes that he hadn't respawned recently so he could unironically suffocate himself in a pillow. There's a voice whispering <em>you should tweet something you should text someone say something </em>into his head but he couldn't care less - there's only one thought that he can hear clearly as it rebounds through his mind. </p><p>
  <em>This sucks. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>florida man tries to buy medieval weapons, stabs any tourist with an accent.</p><p>ALSO I"M AN IDIOT. I deleted this chapter and reuploaded it without thinking of the comments that would be lost, and I'm genuinely upset because there were so many nice ones and they helped me a lot. D: I'm so sorry to anybody whos comments were deleted, I appreciate every one of you!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. kinda dont care</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>samsung</p><p>Also, reread the last chapter! switched out sapnap's pov for tommys.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream's not picking up his <em> goddamn </em>phone.</p><p>Sapnap's sitting in a silent discord call with nothing but Dream and George's unmuted yet silent profile pics to keep him company. Everyone but them left hours ago, the timezone differences and somber mood too much to bear. George had stuck with him in the Dream SMP discord, waiting for Dream to say something, but even he passed out a while back. Sapnap didn't have the heart to wake him though he longed for his companionship - he can only scroll through Instagram and Reddit so many times before he gets bored, he doesn't dare watch any videos in case he misses a noise from Dream, and Twitter is a migraine waiting to happen.  </p><p>He shoots off another text towards Dream, bored, and sighs. He scrolls up the convo on a whim, a hundred text messages from him and George whirring by before he gets to Dream's, rereading the few words like they'll give up their secrets. Dream had finally responded a few hours after he disappeared, texting a measly "I'm fine." and a "don't worry about it.", periods and everything, before preceding to ignore anything else he and George sent him. It was relieving at first, knowing that Dream wasn't dead on the floor, but the relief quickly gave way to anger that only got worse as Dream kept uncharacteristically ignoring them. Sapnap was stuck, wondering about what could've happened to him with no answers coming from anyone- something he's still doing. </p><p>Dream's never this closed off with him or George unless he's truly angry and Sapnap can't find anything that could've triggered him. Most of the streams of the "incident" have been deleted but there's still clips floating around; clips that he's watched so many times that they're practically burned into his memory. He had found nothing from them, of course. Dream had been his usual self, excited from the war and the upcoming duel. Zero indication of anything amiss before he ditched. </p><p>There's something wrong with his <em> best friend </em>and Sapnap can't do anything about it.  </p><p>He sighs again, eyes drooping in exhaustion as he assembles then unassembles the array of evidence he had gathered. The thump of something hitting the ground right after Dream had fired his bow, Tommy collapsing while still managing to end his stream, a whispered "<em> what the fuck?", </em>Dream's short, somber text messages, neither of them answering their phone for hours. He's got all the puzzle pieces but the figures on them are deformed, the shapes fitting together but the end-product warped and confusing. Are Dream and Tommy connected? Did something happen to both of them, or was this some sort of coincidence? Why isn't Dream responding?</p><p>He's been mulling over this for hours and it still doesn't make sense. "<em>Dammit, </em> " he hisses to himself as he leans back in his creaky chair, his frustration taking over. George stirs and mumbles something in his sleep and Sapnap quietly huffs a laugh, mood temporarily lifted. <em> I wonder what Dream would do, </em> he thinks, and there it is again, Sapnap thinking about somebody who leaves him on delivered after he worried for his <em> life</em>. He tries to be angry again but the anger has passed, leaving nothing but tired resignation in its wake. Sapnap stares at Dream's discord icon that's been unlit for hours.</p><p>"<em>I just want answers,</em>" he mumbles to it, and he entertains a fantasy where Dream responds to him right then and there, wakes George up and apologizes, tells them what happened and why he left. Promises to never do it again before booting up a bedwars game and "accidentally" losing to them, taking the L to make his friends feel better. Telling stupid jokes and stories and laughing, putting all this behind them. </p><p>George snores and it jolts him back into the real world. Sapnap's eyes flick back to the screens and his heart turns cold, disappointed but not surprised.</p><p>Dream is gone. He doesn't know what he was expecting.</p><hr/><p>"Dream's a <em>fucking</em> idiot," Sapnap snarls to himself, the statement rebounding on the stone walls around him. The torch in his left-hand flickers orange and lights up the dull shine of coal in rock, the heat singing his sleeves. He lets his sword fall from his shoulder and drag on the diorite beneath him, the screeching of metal on rock grinding against his eardrums. Sparks fly from the point of the weapon, lighting up his shoes, and Sapnap can't help but bear a grin at the sight. He feels a little better. </p><p>His eyes catch on the sight of dried blood and his smile vanishes as he crouches, analyzing the sight. The blood is dark, despite his torchlight, and fresh too. Sapnap drops his sword and runs a finger through it, the texture thick and gooey, and he can feel his heart sink back into cold fury when he catches a whiff of rot. Zombie blood, not human, which means the trail he's been following for an hour means <em>nothing. </em></p><p>Sapnap roars, unhinged and primal, and it sends bats screeching out the cave. A distant groan and rattle greet his ears, provoked by the noise, and he stalks towards it, itching to take his anger out on sinew and bone. He'd prefer the screams and whimpers and loot of their more human counterparts, of course, but he supposes that mobs will do in a pinch. </p><p>An hour later finds him covered in various fluids as he strides out of the cave (now devoid of anything living) and into the bright, midday light, humming a cheerful tune. He wipes his sword on the grass and watches as it yellows before throwing his torch back in the cave, not bothering to extinguish it. Sapnap can't quite say that he regrets the detour - finding Dream is a priority and all, sure, but what remains of his mental health comes first. He passes by a smooth pond and takes a moment to admire himself, tilting his head to and fro and slicking back his hair before giving an award-winning smile, canines flashing. His faded gray-blue eyes stare back at him, devoid of any immediate signs of life. If looks could kill then, well, who's he kidding - he doesn't need his looks to be deadly. </p><p>What was he doing again? Oh, yeah, looking for Dream. Sapnap mournfully shuffles away from his reflection and continues picking through the woods, back towards the Dream SMP.</p><p>The man had screamed something about Tommy before running off when Sapnap had confronted him, and he would be more worried if he wasn't completely expecting it. Yeah, that's right. Completely expecting it. </p><p>Well, maybe that was a lie. But something had been brewing under that mask of Dream's, something that he knew that everyone felt. Dream growing colder and more closed off, for example, content with just smashing their foes and disappearing to brood instead of actually bothering to interact with his allies. The only emotion he really showed nowadays was anger. His plans were growing more brutal too - convincing Eret to betray his nation for an empty promise, practically slaughtering his entire family, only to leave him in the dust when the guy started to crack? Now <em>that </em>was cruel. Maybe a little too cruel, if Sapnap was being completely honest. And that meant something, coming from him. </p><p>Sapnap's insanity manifested itself in bursts of chaos, burning down forests, stabbing any animals that looked at him funny, and killing British children. But the damage never permanent - the forests could grow back, the animals would be forgotten in a day, and the british children would respawn. Probably. But Dream had declared Eret <em>king</em> only to do... <em>whatever he did, </em>all while technically not backing out of his deal, leaving Eret an empty husk in a position he couldn't fulfill and "forcing" Dream to remain in control of the SMP, all according to plan. That was... a lot. </p><p>Point is, Dream had been growing more and more erratic as the fighting dragged on. He had only respawned once, to Sapnap's knowledge, but it's not like Dream actually bothered to talk to him outside of planning and battles anymore, so that number can be anywhere. The war had only been the tipping point for something that was already unsteady, and it was only a matter of time before Dream finally broke. Sapnap couldn't quite say that he expected him to start screaming about being friends with the opposition before vanishing into the undergrowth but hey - everyone's different. </p><p>Though he did wish that Dream was a little more reasonable about the whole "my sanity is in pieces" thing. <em>Sapnap </em>had a lack of any emotion that didn't have to do with violence too, and you didn't see <em>him</em> getting all teary-eyed and skittish over it. But whatever. He just wants to find Dream so he can end this stupid war before somebody doesn't come back. Again. He's not a monster, after all.</p><p><em>You can't kill things if there aren't any more things to kill,</em> he thinks, and he summons his sword and slashes at a nearby herd of pigs to prove his own point. One of them squeals under the netherite and vanishes in a puff of smoke and a splatter of blood, leaving behind a chunk of meat. Sapnap scoops it up and bites into the raw flesh as he starts to stroll back, the rest of the pigs flinching when he sheathes his sword in a sudden movement. See? Sustainable. </p><p>The community house comes into view, the bricks reflecting the sparkle of the water. Multi-colored wood paths lead into the brick and stone structure, windows gleaming in the midday sun. Imported coral dots the lake bed. It's beautiful, sure, but all Sapnap can feel is a growing sense of annoyance as he catches a glimpse of white-rimmed goggles, leaning against the wall. </p><p>"Sapnap," George says cooly as he approaches, and he itches to unsheathe his sword. "You're late."</p><p>"I got attacked. Where's Punz?"</p><p>"He reported back half an hour ago, he's going back to the Nether. Attacked by what, exactly?" George says, glancing at the pig blood still on his hands. </p><p>Sapnap tosses the last chunk into the water and wipes his hands on his pants. He wasn't hungry anyway. He scowls. "Monsters. I was looking in the cave systems. What were <em>you</em> doing?" </p><p>George sighs, like <em>Sapnap's </em>the one being annoying. "I checked over the SMP and L'manberg again, and searched the outskirts for any trails. You might not understand this, being the little bloodthirsty psycho you are, but we don't have <em>time</em> to get sidetracked. We need to find Dream so he can sign the peace treaty and get this war <em>over</em> with," he says slowly, like Sapnap's a <em>child.</em> He can feel his blood boiling with every word that comes out of the other man's mouth. He's half-tempted to whip out his sword and slice George to pieces, but Sapnap forcibly holds himself back - that would just prove George's point. </p><p>He settles for a curt nod instead, and George leans back and smiles, wide and mocking. "<em>Good</em>," he says, and he makes a dismissing gesture like he's shooing a dog. "Search the forest near L'manberg next. You can go now."</p><p>Sapnap turns and strides away the moment he's done speaking, resolving to find a baby animal to slaughter as he heads back towards the forest. Those always make him feel better, though nothing beats a good spar - not that there's anything to spar with in the middle of the day. He finds himself missing Dream, for once; he might be insane but at least he's bearable, and Sapnap would take his cool apathy over a patronizing <em>dick</em> any day. George seemed to mellow out in his presence as well, Dream tying all of them together into an actual, capable team instead of a violent mess.</p><p>He remembers a time when he felt elated when he caught sight of his friends, when they didn't <em>need</em> Dream to tie them together but wanted him there anyways. Sapnap can feel an uncertain emotion bubbling up inside of him at the memory, and he tries to turn the uncertainty into anger but he just feels hollow. He catches sight of his reflection in and he can feel his confidence wavering with the water, his unnaturally gray eyes staring. Following the instructions of a friend he hates, looking for a man that he'll never <em>really</em> find - what is he doing? Why is he still here?</p><p>The sound of faint footsteps on wood jolt him back to reality, and Sapnap glances back only to see George heading off towards the direction of the pet house. Sapnap turns back around and sighs as he smooths his emotions back over with easy confidence and bloodstained teeth, stalking back towards the forest. He lights a torch when he's back in the tree cover, surrounded by dry grass, and he holds it close, letting the heat wash over his face and settle into his bones. The flickering flame soothes his soul, burning his questions and doubts away and leaving nothing but smoldering ash.</p><p>He doesn't need anything else. He doesn't need <em>anyone </em>else. Sapnap drops the flame and watches it spread, the fire illuminating the dullness of his eyes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>snapper map</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. baby steps</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>becoming a magical girl</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream's lying on smooth stone, now warm from his body heat. Torchlights flicker from the walls of the cave, illuminating everything in a soft orange and giving off just enough heat to be comfortable. Tubbo's sitting across from him, slumped comfortably against a chunk of andesite as he rambles questions and observations. The oppressive aura from a while ago is thankfully gone, forcibly dispersed from Dream's best efforts - telling him about his world's countries and technology and history, jumping from topic to topic to keep Tubbo's (and his) attention away from the whole I'm-a-murderer thing. It was awkward and stilted at first, but Dream's stubbornness and Tubbo's curiosity eventually won out. </p><p>"-that's absolutely wild! I mean, you don't learn how to fight at all? Not even for self-defense?" Tubbo asks, eyes bright. Dream can't help but grin at his childish excitement. </p><p>"We could if we wanted to, but you'd have to go out of your way and pay someone to teach you, and it's mostly hand-to-hand stuff anyways. Pretty much nobody owns a sword or a shield."</p><p>Tubbo grins, positively delighted at the novelty of Dream's world. "So <em>weird,</em>" he sighs. A comfortable silence lapses but Dream's heart is picking up again. He's been telling Tubbo about his world while shying away from asking his own questions - the last time he tried resulted in some traumatic flashbacks for the both of them. He hasn’t even asked if somebody could MLG water. But Dream knows he has to say somethings eventually; he needs to learn more about this world eventually if he wants to survive without going insane. Well, any more insane.</p><p>Tubbo doesn't say anything for several seconds and Dream takes the opportunity. "So what's up with inventories?" he questions meekly, totally prepared to abandon that line of thought if it turns out that inventories are only unlocked after a death of a loved one or a terrorist attack, or something. Anything's possible after learning about the shitshow that respawning apparently is - the fact that something so simple in theory is so complicated, so <em>realistic</em> here is shocking. This isn't just a game, like what he had originally thought; this is its own world with its own rules, and Dream doesn't know what to expect anymore.</p><p>Tubbo looks at him, deceptively neutral, and Dream finds his gaze shying away from his eerily bright blue eyes. "What do you need to know about it?" Tubbo says casually, and Dream takes his lack of a reaction as permission to ask away. </p><p>"Anything. What is it, how it works, how to use it."</p><p>Tubbo fully settles against the wall, fingers tapping at his leg as he thinks. "Well," he starts, "We don't really know what it is, but we're thinking that it's some sort of pocket dimension thing - anything that goes in comes out the same. We're not sure how it works, but you can kind of feel it in your mind - you just grab on to it and..." Tubbo makes a smooth gesture, similar to the one he made when he summoned his pickaxe, and a bundle of carrots appear clutched in his right hand.</p><p>He moves again and with a slight <em>whoosh</em>, the carrots are replaced with the hilt of a gleaming diamond sword. One more movement and the sword is gone, replaced by a paper package. Dream's a bit underwhelmed by the last item, especially since the one before was a <em>diamond</em> sword, but then Tubbo unwraps it to reveal a steak that's <em>still steaming</em>. Dream can't help but grin at the sight as Tubbo bites into it before recoiling, burning his mouth. He feels like a kid again, watching a street magician pull rabbits out of hats, but it's not just a sleight of hand - it's an entire pocket dimension. One he could learn to access too.</p><p>"Teach me," he blurts, but the teen's too preoccupied with chewing around the burning meat. Dream fidgets while he waits.</p><p>Tubbo finally swallows. "I'd love to but I'm not sure how. It's sort of... instinctual, y'know? You get better at it after a while, sure, but for the most part, you just do it." He vanishes the half-eaten steak and reappears it again before taking another bite. Dream can feel something start to bubble inside his chest.</p><p>"But there has to be some sort of technique! I did it when I was - was helping Tommy, but when I tried again this morning it didn't work." </p><p>Tubbo hums. "How'd you do it?" he asks. Dream reaches for his hoodie to demonstrate and Tubbo sits up, tilting his head. "What're you doing?" </p><p>"Showing you?" Dream hesitates. Tubbo gestures to the hoodie in a silent question and Dream flushes. "Well, I summoned some potions and stuff by reaching in my pockets the first time, so I thought..." he trails off, realizing how stupid he sounds. His original theory about his inventory being linked to his clothes has clearly been disproven and something in him is swelling at the thought of looking stupid, of looking <em>weak. </em></p><p>"Well, that's one way to do it," Tubbo says, not unkindly, and Dream appreciates the sentiment but it does little to alleviate the redness in his cheeks and the turmoil in his chest. "It's not very efficient though, and there's a better way."</p><p>Dream bites down the flurry of words <em>- What else was I supposed to think, don't patronize me, do you know who you're talking to, do you know what I could do to you? - </em>threatening to spill out of him, too busy trying to hold back his harsh words to wonder where they came from. "How do I... do it properly?" he forces out, refusing to let his annoyance leak into his tone. </p><p>"Hmm. Well, do you feel anything new in your mind?"</p><hr/><p>Tubbo <em>still </em>doesn't know what to think of Dream. </p><p>He's so... light. Childish almost, watching Tubbo make bread and summon steak, but that's not the word - he's naïve, more like, innocent and unscarred. He almost sees his old self reflected in that glassy, porcelain mask, when he first came here with Tommy. When they didn't even know what respawning was, when they told stories and built houses without a care in the world. Before whispers of independence and a soul-shattering war. </p><p>The Dream that rambled about his world to make Tubbo feel better is a far cry from the man who had agreed to the duel, cold and confident and cynical, willing to permanently harm somebody to get his own way. That was evident even before he had told Tubbo what was going on, and it was the only reason he had gone anywhere near Dream; it was the reason he gave him the benefit of the doubt and didn't stab him the moment the words <em>alternate universe </em>came out of Dream's mouth. Tubbo's glad he heard Dream out, even if his explanation raises as many questions as it answers.</p><p>It's nice being around someone as peaceful as this new Dream is, even if looking directly at him makes his heart stutter in an instinctual panic.</p><p>The masked man is now sitting across him in a small stone room, eyes (allegedly) closed and breathing deep and even in an attempt to access his inventory. There's an undercurrent of tension in his shoulders - frustration, probably, from the lack of progress so far. Dream flicks open his hand in a sudden movement and Tubbo flinches, half expecting a loaded crossbow. It's the same movement that Dream, well, the <em>other</em> Dream used to summon the weapons used to kill him. He hopes it's a coincidence. </p><p>There's a poof of smoke and Tubbo squints at the item nestled in Dream's palm. It's an apple, he belatedly realizes, but it's horribly bruised in a way that it probably hadn't been before, marked with brown gashes and sagging skin. Dream stares at it, the mask obscuring his emotions. Tubbo wonders why he hasn't taken it off as seconds tick by.</p><p>"Hey, that's pretty good!" he says cheerily, after a moment. Dream doesn't move and Tubbo's nerves begin to tangle in his chest. This Dream isn't the same Dream that murdered him and his family several times without mercy, sure, but Tubbo can't help but be wary. He still doesn't know what happened to the version that<em> did</em>, after all. </p><p>"You're improving fast," he offers when the quiet drags on too long for his liking. Dream says nothing again. Tubbo can feel himself tensing as his paranoia spikes. <em>It's not the same Dream, </em>he tells himself again, but the sentiment refuses to cement itself into his brain. He's in a stone room underground. Nobody will hear him scream. His heart roars in his ears, almost drowning out the silence.</p><p>But the man just sighs and tosses the fruit away, and Tubbo's too relieved at the bubble of tension popping to notice that the apple's been crushed beyond recognition. "It's better than nothing," Dream says, running his opposite hand through uncovered hair, and Tubbo nods hurridly. "But I don't get <em>why</em> it's so hard. I summoned a bunch of stuff when I was helping Tommy, and that was before I even knew that there were inventories. And I've been trying for like, an hour. You'd think that I'd at least be able to get something without damaging it by- Hey, what're you doing?"</p><p>Tubbo had stopped paying attention when Dream had mentioned the time, too busy withdrawing a clock from his inventory. He fumbles with the fragile device and almost drops it before he finally grabs hold of it and stares. It's nearing three. He was supposed to be back at L'manberg at <em>noon</em>. Tubbo's almost never late to anything - the last time he was, he and Tommy were transporting their supplies, near the beginning of the war. When they were intercepted and killed. </p><p>"<em>I have to go,</em>" he blurts, scrambling to his feet and storing the clock. Dream sits up as well, tilting his head.</p><p>"Is everything okay?" he asks, concern seeping into his tone, and Tubbo appreciates the sentiment but it's <em>really</em> not the time. He needs to go, now, and he summons his pickaxe and is halfway towards the wall the seperates the room from the tunnel when he remembers about the confused man behind him. The man who needs to spend the next several hours in a small room undergroun.</p><p>Tubbo swears under his breath and closes his eyes, scanning through the inventory in his mind. "Fuck it," he mutters, and he grabs hold of half of the junk in his inventory and pulls. He opens his eyes and glances over the wool, wood, blocks of dirt, various food items and materials, and deems it 'good enough' to keep a clueless adult entertained and bustles back towards the wall.</p><p>"There's a bunch of stuff in there - try and see if you can make or cook or plant anything, hell, decorate if you wanna, we'll probably be hanging here for a while. Um, keep practicing accessing your inventory, try and uh, see if you can craft anything with it too. You probably shouldn't go outside, I <em>really have to go-"</em></p><p>"Tubbo," Dream says, and he freezes with his pickaxe halfway in its swing. He thinks it's the first time Dream's ever said his name to his face. "Promise me you won't tell anybody about this."</p><p>"I-"<em> wasn't planning on it, </em>Tubbo goes to say, but the truth of the statement makes him hesitate. He'd never even thought of telling someone. The L' manbergian's betrayed expressions flash through his mind. Their enemy's leader is weak and incapacitated and can be easily persuaded <em>(or ransomed or held hostage, a part of Tubbo that he hates mutters) </em>for anything they wanted, if Tubbo gave him away. He could get their independence. They could be <em>free. </em></p><p>But Dream's looking up at him, his mask eerily blank but his posture open and trusting, and Tubbo can't. He just <em>can't</em>, despite half of him screaming that this is what they need to win the war, this is the miracle they need. This Dream, awed by the simplest things and with a heart soft enough to comfort a virtual stranger, doesn't deserve that. This Dream shouldn't have to face different versions of his friends in a war-torn world he was never meant to be in, shouldn't have to be treated like a pawn when he can't even summon an apple.</p><p>"Are you okay?" Dream asks, concerned, and any lingering doubt disperses. Tubbo'll find another way, he always does. He digs his pick into the wall as a wave of guilt washes over him for even thinking about using an innocent as leverage, dark thoughts sinking back into the hole they had skulked out of. </p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, Dream, I promise."</p><p>Dream sighs and Tubbo can hear him readjust his clothes as he settles back down. "Don't die on the way there, okay?" he says, and Tubbo can hear the grin in his voice.</p><p>It's a horrible attempt at humor, the fact that it might actually happen making it even less funny, and yet the teen can't help but smile at it. "Yeah," he says, and he backs out of the room and into the cool, tunnel air. The last thing he sees is Dream enthusiastically waving as Tubbo blocks the entrance back up with stone, his demeanor finally matching the smiley mask attached to his face. </p><p>Tubbo's heart twinges with emotions that he could never name as he strides away from the room, accompanied by nothing but the sound of rushing water as he heads downstream. A glint of black amidst submerged gray rock catches his eye and he bends down, plunging his hand into ice-cold water to retrieve the object. He pulls it out and wrings it, recognizing it as one of Dream's gloves that he had abandoned the day before, and Tubbo goes to stash it away.</p><p>But the cloth stinks of metal, coppery and cloying. Dream's gloves reeking of blood and weapons isn't anything new but it's a sharp contrast to the man who just waved him goodbye, one that leaves Tubbo feeling sick and slows his feet to a stop. He needs to keep moving, needs to get back to L'manberg before he gets into more trouble, but the simple article of clothing is staring him down, daring Tubbo to imagine what caused it to end up like this - abandoned in the sewers, ripped off in a moment of panic. He shifts his grip and the glove leaves a watery pink imprint on his fingers. </p><p>Tubbo wonders whose blood it is. Something tells him that he doesn't want to know. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Not much is happening to real-life-Tommy-in-the-SMP right now cuz he's busy moping, but that'll change soon... 0_o Also, is the timeline too messy? I've kinda just been writing it out in vaguely chronological order. Any feedback is appreciated, Happy Trails!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. new brain who dis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>guess who's back</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream's woefully unprepared for the outside world - doomed from the moment he pulled on a hoodie, really. The outside air is hot and sticky despite it only being a few hours from sunset, the swampy summer air clogging his senses and clothes and slowing him down. The clothes he's wearing seem to insulate every drop of heat he produces, turning him into a literal greenhouse. It doesn't help that everything seems so far away too; Dream's in a residential area that seems to stretch on for miles, his feet trying to take him to the nearest market while his body drowns in humidity. People clad in sleeveless tops and shorts eye him and he picks up his pace. He glances around and fingers his knife. </p><p>"Bit warm there?"</p><p>A lighthearted comment from a stranger has Dream stumbling back in a panic, the sluggish heat and this body's lack of reflexes combining to crash him into the ground. He glances up at the man towering a few feet in front of him and immediately starts analyzing his body, his posture, his aggressiveness, but the man doesn't seem interested in him, staring at a spot a few feet to the right of him instead. Dream follows his eye line and sees his knife, gleaming in the sun, out of his reach and in the open where everyone can see. Dream whips his head back towards the stranger as the man backs up, eyes wide, and reaches for something in his pocket.</p><p>Nope.</p><p>Dream's up and running before the stranger can do anything, shoving past pedestrians and narrowly avoiding the vehicles roaring past him as he crosses streets and cuts across yards, his legs burning and lungs heaving after a pathetically short time. There are unfamiliar people in bright clothes everywhere he turns, staring at him, strangers raking their gaze across his skin as he flees. His house isn't that far but he doesn't want to risk leading anybody back, so he forces himself to make jagged loops around the block to evade the threat that he's sure is there.</p><p>Or at least, he tries. But Dream's body already feels like it's giving up after a measly ten minutes of full-speed sprinting, so he reluctantly turns toward the direction of the house. He's shaking too much to be healthy and he's horribly lightheaded, and the only reason he doesn't collapse right then and there is because his house is coming into view. Dream manages to stumble his way up the front door and push his way in, the sudden artificially cool air mixing with the heat and making his head spin. Dream only barely manages to close the door behind him before he hits the floor. </p><p>He rips off his mask as he gasps, his sunglasses skittering across the hardwood with the sudden movement as he tears off his sweatshirt and claws at his throat. The aftermath of pushing this body over its limit and sheer panic is a deadly combination, overclocking his brain and sending unneeded adrenaline through his veins. Dream’s surroundings are wavering in front of him and he knows he’s blacking out but all he can think about is he can’t breathe <em>he can’t breathe-  </em></p><p>Dream wakes up hours later, disoriented and still alone. It’s almost dark by now, the last few beams of sunlight barely lighting up the room - Gods, did he pass out? He groggily reaches into his inventory with the intent to retrieve a torch but is only hit with a mental block where his stuff should be. He glances at his empty hand, then to his surroundings. Right. Can’t do that.</p><p><em> Look for a light switch, </em> something offers instead, and Dream manages to crawl to a wall and stagger to his feet with nothing but sheer willpower, his legs aching with the effort. <em>Weak, </em>he snarls to himself as he stumbles across the wall. <em>Weak, </em>as his shaking fingers fumble and jab against a light switch. <em>Weak, </em>as a light shines from the ceiling and his bleary eyes squint in pain. Dream sinks to down, barely bothering to catch himself before settling to the polished floor. He tilts his head back into the wall, hard enough to hurt, and scrubs his face with dirty fingers. <em>Weak. </em>Even his hands hurt from hitting the pavement outside, <em>hours ago.</em> <em>Weak.</em></p><p>Dream's never hated himself more, and that's saying something. Gods, he couldn't even bring back the weapon he set out with. His fingers shake. His mouth is dry. <em>Weak.  </em></p><p><em>You're only making it worse, </em>comes a thought, interrupting the steady stream of self-deprecation. <em>Distract yourself, </em>it suggests. Dream snorts, sharp and sardonic, as he reaches up to clutch his skull. Distract himself, laughable.He huffs. Dream's no stranger to intrusive impulses but he's certainly not used to these. It seems even his brain is affected by this body; his thoughts are as weak as he is. <em>Pathetic.</em></p><p>Something catches his attention - a device, probably, vibrating across the room on a table. Dream tries to ignore it but it feels wrong to leave it buzzing, however faint it is. <em>Pick it up, it'll help, </em>the thoughts urge. Dream doubts that some odd screen will help and makes no move to go towards it. <em>It has information, </em>a niggling voice tells him, and if Dream were more sentimental he'd think it were his exasperated subconsciousness. He isn't though, so he instead thinks of it as the last vestiges of whatever poor soul inhabited the body before he booted it out. </p><p>But information? It'd be nice to get some of that, especially since he can't exactly work his limbs enough to do anything else. He claws his way back up the wall, using it as a crutch to lean on as he makes his way to the table. <em>Pitiful, </em>he thinks to himself, and he takes comfort knowing that at least some of his thoughts are his own. Dream takes a last few steps, painfully slow, and manages to swipe the vibrating black rectangle before letting himself sink back to the cool floor. </p><p>It lights up under his touch and Dream squints at a glowing list of notifications. <em>Answer them, </em>something prompts, and Dream ignores it in favor of curiously tapping on an icon on the bottom corner instead. His face is suddenly reflected in the screen and Dream blinks before taking the opportunity to inspect his eyes once again. <em>Still green, </em>he notes, exhaling sharply. Pitch-black pupils nestled in <em>g</em><em>reen green green </em>instead of the once ever-present pure white of insanity. </p><p>Gods, he had forgotten what his own eyes looked like. He obsessively tilts his head to and fro, gaze glued to his own eyes as he admires black centers and shades of hazel and gray and <em>green, </em>bright and alive and natural. His phone buzzes in his hand and Dream swipes away the notification, content with ignoring the world around him. It keeps buzzing though, and the constant notifications obscure his view. Dream scowls as he tries to dismiss them all but a slip of his finger takes him away from his reflection and into some other application, colorful bubbles outlining words.</p><p>He reads what appears before he can stop himself - <em>answer us - dream say ur okay - were worried - dream - please - </em>and his breath hitches as the realization hits him. They're messages <em>(texts)</em> from his friends. His <em>best </em>friends, worried for his well-being by the tone of their words. They're caring for him in a way that they haven't in a long, long time. Something in his chest throbs. </p><p>
  <em>Weak. </em>
</p><p>Dream's face morphs into a snarl. He doesn't need <em>this, </em>this <em>pity. </em>These people texting him aren't even the people that he knows, just soft, alternate versions of them. <em>Weak </em>versions of them. - <em>Dream? - </em>appears another message. - <em>i can see you read this - pls say ur okay - </em></p><p>He drops the phone and stumbles back from the mockeries of his friends on the other side of the screen, the device hitting the flooring with a sound that makes him wince. He tries to leap to his feet but his muscles refuse to cooperate, and he's crashing down before he knows it -</p><hr/><p>-hitting the ground with a splash and a gasp. Dream scowls at the puddle in the ground, his ankles twinging when he pulls himself back to his feet. Ugh - physics. He makes a face at the hapless puddle of water. He hadn't expected to actually MLG water, but he thought that it would at least soften his fall. He flexes his legs and winces. Apparently not.</p><p>Dream grabs hold of the bucket on impulse and flicks his wrist, his mood lifted when it actually works - the bucket disappears into his inventory with nothing but a few particles. His hours of sitting still and staring at his palm had been for something! He flicks his wrist again, deciding to try his luck, and a loaf of bread appears, half-smashed in a way that it hadn't been when he stored it. Dream scowls as he rips into it. Dryer, too. Better luck next time, he supposes. At least his ankles feel better. </p><p>He picks his way around the puddle of water, a poorly constructed cobblestone tower, and the various junk scattered around, grabbing a book and quill off a slab-turned-shelf and taking a seat on a misshapen lump of rock (his first somewhat successful attempt at summoning something, something Dream didn't have the heart to get rid of). He settles onto his stony seat and flips past Tubbo's various notes, stopping when he gets to his ink-stained page.</p><p>Dream gives the words a quick once over as he fiddles with the quill, his own handwriting and smeared ink giving him pause.</p><p>
  <em> To-do list </em>
</p><ul>
<li>
<strike><em>Practice inventory</em></strike><em> - done, still needs work on summoning. Putting stuff away works pretty well.</em>
</li>
<li><em>Brew something</em></li>
<li>
<strike><em>Craft something</em></strike><em> - crafted stone axe and furnace, but they kinda suck. furnace doesn't really work, come back later.</em>
</li>
<li>
<em><strike>Craft food and eat it</strike> </em><em> - made bread. bland, but not bad. Cool.</em>
</li>
<li><em>Cook food in a furnace</em></li>
<li>
<strike><em>Defy</em> <em>gravity</em></strike><em> - cant. no more block clutches, stuff can't float. </em>
</li>
<li><em>Lava bucket</em></li>
<li><em>Plant something, bonemeal</em></li>
<li>
<span class="u"><em>Build something</em></span><em> - built a tower to mlg, made some slabs and trapdoors and decorated.  </em>
</li>
<li><em>MLG water</em></li>
</ul><p>He strikes through the last one - <em> MLG water - </em> and scribbles a note next to it. <em> Real-life physics still work here, </em> <em> bullshit. </em> </p><p>Dream sighs. What's next? He scans the list once again and settles on <em> plant something </em> . He could use the monotonous work as he thinks about how <em> fucked </em>this is. </p><p>He glowers as he sifts through Tubbo's abandoned items for the materials he needs. The only reason Dream hadn't given up when he first realized what was happening was because he had convinced himself that this was all a game world, a <em> Minecraft but it's real-life </em> scenario where everything done in the game was just turned 3D. He was a literal pro at Minecraft - he knew all the glitches and tricks, the updates, hell, he formed his Youtube channel and made his career based on his knowledge of the game. And this wasn’t even a brand new world - it was his<em> own </em> SMP, one that he had created and cultivated himself. Surely it wouldn't be hard to survive. </p><p><em> But it’s not that easy, </em> Dream thinks as he stores away a stack of ultra-dense, packed dirt. The respawns, the runes, the lore, whatever the fuck was up with Eret; there are so many aspects that had never appeared in the game, the <em>server</em> he's familiar with. Dream had thought that this place was a mirror image of his SMP but what evidence is there to support that? </p><p><em>I</em> mean,<em> what makes me think that it’s not the other way around?</em> Dream thinks as he starts placing orderly rows of dirt. Maybe he’d surround it trapdoors, that would look nice. <em>That</em><em> it’s this world effecting mine?</em></p><p>Dream blinks. He should write that down. He throws down the remaining half a stack of dirt in the corner and pays no heed as it crumbles out of block form, speeding towards the notebook. He snatches it from the rock he left it on, hard enough to rip, and opens to a new page. </p><p>This world is so much more than some server or a game. So then that begs the question - what is it? "A different dimension" doesn't quite sit right, and an "alternate universe" isn't it either - it doesn't explain the parallels that do exist. Parallels. Hmm.</p><p><em> Parallel reality? </em> He scratches on the page. He briefly wonders how his quill hasn’t run out of ink yet. <em> Lore is slightly different than the SMP, but a lot of aspects seem similar. Things seem to affect each other. Who came first? Might be chicken and the egg situation. Duel in real life, duel here. Disc war in real life, disc war here. Except things here are serious, Eret seems off, and Tubbo seems traumatized, </em> he writes, faltering, <em> by this version of Dream. I think everyone is. </em> Then, after a moment of thought, <em> Did I remember things from the other Dream's point of view? </em> </p><p>He ends that line of thinking there; that's a whole other can of worms that he <em>really </em>doesn't want to open. Dream moves his quill further down and starts a new tangent. <em>Where are the others? Bad, Alyssa, Callahan, Ponk, Purpled, Skeppy, etc. Was planning to add Jack Manifold too, does Tubbo know him here? They weren’t involved in the war, do they even exist?</em> That's another dead-end; there's no way to tell any of that until Tubbo comes back and that might not be for hours. He starts again, his fingers smearing with ink. <em>Do<em> all m</em>ajor events correlate? I think so, we were in the middle of the duel. What about minor events? Need</em> more<em> evidence.</em> <em><span class="u">Need</span><span class="u"><em> to ask Tub</em>bo</span>. </em>A pause as Dream scans his recent experiences, looking for something he can actually solve. Then - <em>What happened to my friends?</em></p><p>Dream thinks back to the encounters with the scuffed versions of them. He furrows his brows. He had thought that they were just that - twisted, bastardized versions of the people he loves, created by the minds of some over-dramatic friends on a Minecraft server. <em>Chicken and the egg, </em>he thinks again. <em>Who created who?</em></p><p>Maybe they aren’t bastardized at all. Maybe they’re real, with real motivations, desires, hopes, and dreams, backstories, and experiences. They’re aggressive and brutal and bloodthirsty not because his friends are over-competitive pieces of shit and that translates into the game, but because they <em>are. </em> Dream shudders. They had their own motivations for starting a war, for <em> killing, </em>and that influenced the <em>real </em>versions of them too.</p><p>Dream blinks. That applies to him, his character and his current body, as well. He raises his ungloved hand. He had scrubbed it so hard that his hand was rubbed pink and yet he can still see traces of dull red on his fingertips, under his nails. The body he is inhabiting has killed. Dream's heart sinks as the realization kicks in. The <em> brain </em> that he's in has killed. </p><p>And<em> what's so bad with that, </em> something hisses. Dream can feel his eyes widen. That's not him. <em>That's not him</em>. He drops the book as his hands automatically rise to clutch his head, his palm impacting the smooth porcelain of his mask instead. It’s suffocating. <em>I didn't have a choice, it's a dog-eat-dog world out there. </em> Dream can feel bile rising in his throat as he fumbles with the straps. <em>It's not my fault you're weak. </em>Fuck, it’s a clasp; he uses his nails to pry at it and hisses when a sharp pain goes through one of them. But he did what he had to, and the mask comes off of his face. Dream takes a full breath for the first time since coming here.</p><p>It’s a pale off-white, smooth and glassy to the touch. Dream turns it around with trembling fingers and looks. A clumsy smile is etched onto it in a pitch-black pigment, the simplistic design at odds with the complex leather straps, only increasing its uncanniness. Dream moves his hand across the face and a streaks of color from his fingers follow it, smearing the unmarred surface with the red of blood and black of ink and brown of dirt like some shitty, overpriced art piece. The mask finally slips through his shaking fingers, clattering to the ground. Dream brushes his lower cheek with his uninjured hand (it's pale and calloused and filled with too many scars to count) and it scratches against stubble that hadn't been there last time he checked, coming back wet. Tears. </p><p><em>Weak, </em>comes a voice, and Dream's thinking thoughts that aren't his own what the fuck<em> what the fuck</em>. That isn't him. <em>That's not him. </em></p><p>
  <em> What happened to me? </em>
</p><p>He can't tell if that is. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>lmao whoops, accidentally took a two month-long break. Next chapter will be real-tommy-in-SMP-body and some tubbo :). Feel free to point out any mistakes and Happy trails!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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